


Rollerboy

by alexabarton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Rollerblades & Rollerskates, Skinny Dipping, Summer Love, Tattoos, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Greg Lestrade's third and last summer working at Bakersfield Holiday Camp.<br/>The Holmes family and their bratty kid Sherlock are back too - except this year something is very, very, different.....<br/>Sherlock Holmes is GORGEOUS and Greg just can't resist.<br/>This may just be the summer of his life.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Grown Up

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started this an a entry for the fuckyeahteenlock rare pair contest, but it started to get too long and there is no way I could finish it in under 10K.  
> My musical inspiration came from The Style Council - Long Hot Summer (a bit of a blast from the past and admittedly my era!)  
> Anyway, this is what I have so far....

“God I hate people!”

Greg Lestrade crashed out of the cabin door, and flung himself down on the wooden steps out front. He peeled back the bright pink rubber gloves from his hands and with a snort of disgust threw them over the side into a bush.

“Someone took a shit in the sink for fucks sake. An _actual_ shit. In the _actual_ sink….they don’t pay me enough for this….”

“Shit?” Sally supplied, and he stared at her for a second in disbelief, trying to hold on to his anger before giving in to the inevitable and dissolving into deep belly laughs. Well if he didn’t laugh he’d cry – wasn’t that the saying?

“Christ”, he wheezed, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, then scrubbing them roughly through his short dark hair, “We’re only three weeks in, what the hell is it going to be like in high season?”

“You know, it was probably just one of our lot trying to piss you off….Here, looks like you need one”.

She offered up a crumpled pack of Marlboro’s and he slid one out, lighting it from the tip of her own and leaning back down until he rested against his elbows on the varnished surface. The sun was out for a change, and he tilted his head back, eyes squinted closed and basked in the warmth on his face and bare arms.

He blew out a stream of smoke and examined the cigarette thoughtfully, “Any more like that and I’ll want something a hell of a lot stronger than this thing”.

It wasn’t that bad, not really. He’d worked the summer season at Bakersfield Holiday Camp for the past three years. This was his last though, had signed up for one last summer, enough to stash a few grand in the bank before police training started in September. Any other day he wouldn’t have been on the cleaning rota. Trust them to be short on the day some dickhead took a dump where they shouldn’t. Not that Greg was a stranger to the dirty work, being the eldest of six kids had taken care of that.

“You on tonight? Some of us are going in to town, thought we might give that new place a try for a laugh, you know, the roller disco”.

Sally stubbed out the end of her fag on the railing and looked at him expectantly, anticipating the outburst of sarcasm. But that was her default not his.

“What?”, Greg cocked an eyebrow at her and wrinkled his nose in disgust, “And sane adults voluntarily go there, strap four wheels on the bottom of their feet and fall on their arses repeatedly for an hour? I’ll give it a miss thanks, haven’t got any skates anyway. I’m not nine. Or mad. Or a girl.”

“Oi!” Sally punched him in the arm, lips pursed, and he chuckled, rubbing at the sore spot, just hidden by the sleeve of his red Bakersfield polo shirt. “Be boring then, but just think of all those sweaty bodies in tight little hot-pants and belly tops you’ll be missing out on, and it’s not just for girls”.

“Hot-pants? Seriously? The arse-cheeks- hanging- out- the- bottom kind? Nice.”

Greg hummed to himself, while Sally rolled her eyes at his admittedly sexist observation designed specifically to wind her up. Maybe he could stick it for one evening. Sit on the side-lines with a beer and watch the show. It was either that or calling the bingo numbers for the shampoo and set crew, have his arse pinched by randy pensioners, while he handed out cards and dabbers, and sold raffle tickets to win a full body massage from ginger Joe at the on-site spa.

“Oh God, they’re here…I thought they weren’t due until after four?” Sally scrambled up brushing ash from her shorts, and hurriedly tied her hair back in a messy knot, as a large black Range Rover with tinted glass windows climbed smoothly up the track towards them. “They’re not in this one are they?”, she shot him a panicked look, taking in the cleaning trolley, wedged to hold open the outer door and the dirty laundry from the previous occupants sitting in clear plastic bin-bags out on the porch.

“Nah”, he said with a yawn and a stretch, noting with satisfaction how her eyes were drawn down to the strip of bare skin at his waist, “Next one along 21B, did it this morning, spotless”.

“Don’t you think you should check again?” Sally wavered unconvinced, and Greg was mildly offended at her lack of faith in his housekeeping skills, but he knew why she was nervous.The Holmes family were notoriously picky. Well, not the parents, they were fine, the maths professor and the husband who baked cakes, it was the kids, or kid really that made everyone’s hackles rise. The older one worked in the city now and hadn’t been down here for the past two years, but Sherlock the younger of the two, he was really something else. He was small and skinny with ice cool eyes that penetrated and dissected, and a smart mouth that would divulge the darkest of secrets without compunction.

“Yeah, well good luck cause I’m off, the little shit almost got me the sack last year, you only think it’s funny cause he’s left you alone so far”, she said, eyeing the dark windows with narrowed eyes, following its progress until the car pulled up on the small tarmac parking space in front of the other cabin. He couldn’t help laughing again, as she leapt down the three low steps and turned to mouth ‘wanker’ at him, nodding towards the boy just emerging from the back door, before ducking down behind the trees out of sight, heading back in the opposite direction.

Greg stood up and winced as his kneecaps cracked and leant over the rail to retrieve the discarded rubber gloves. He didn’t give a shit about the Holmes kid, there was nothing in Greg’s life that he wouldn’t happily divulge to anyone after a few pints, and Sally, she was only pissed off that the kid had called her out on using the empty cabins to fuck Anderson in, before he split up with his girlfriend. As if that dozy shit was worth almost losing your job, and a chunk of your hair when his ex found out.

Greg dumped his butt in the bucket of dirty water on the trolley and pulled it to the edge of the steps, then braced to lift it down. It was really a two-person job, and he cursed silently as brown scummy water slopped over the side and trickled down his leg.

“Shouldn’t you have tipped that out first?”

Shit. He jumped about a mile and just stifled a ‘fuck’ as a deep, velvet voice sounded right behind him. How the hell did the kid sneak up like that? He hadn’t heard a thing. Hang on a minute, thought Greg with a start as he turned around, the witty retort he’d prepared dying on his tongue. Since when did the kid have a voice that deep, and Christ, when did he get so tall? Sherlock Holmes must have shot up six inches at least and his voice had broken properly too, free of the cute little cracks and squeaks that had embarrassed the hell out of him last summer. Bloody hell, talk about late-bloomers, he’d be beating them off with a stick this year, with the floppy dark curls, the eyes and the cheekbones, plus, he had finally grown into his long, thin body, filled out in _all_ the right places, in tight skinny jeans and a plain white t-shirt with a tiny V that flashed a nice little bit of collarbone.

Reign it in Lestrade, he thought, noting the look of confusion on the teenager’s face as he tried to work out just what Greg was gawping at.

Oh kid, you have no fucking idea.

“Nope, sorry genius”, he said with a smirk, “It’s fixed on…I guess they think we’ve all got some overwhelming compulsion to nick a blue plastic mop bucket with Bakersfield written on the side”.

“Huh”, Sherlock huffed, looking him up and down, “You’re Greg, Greg Lestrade”.

“Yup, so good they named me twice eh?” Sherlock looked back at him blankly. Greg shrugged, disappointed, well _he_ thought it was funny.

“You might want to change those shorts by the way, the water’s made them a bit…see-through”. Sherlock called over his shoulder, grinning slyly as he spun around again, and with a slight squeak of his rubber-soled Vans he stalked back over to his parents.

Greg looked down at the front of his pants, white cotton with white boxers underneath, the water had made them stick to his leg, tan skin showing through the now transparent material, and displaying the hairy black outline of his balls for all the world to see.

Damn.


	2. You Pretty Sexy Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock spun in a tight pirouette and settled back directly in front of him with his arse barely brushing the front of Greg's jeans. Seriously he could've cried. If he didn't come in his pants first, that is.

“Remind me again why the hell I agreed to this?”

He raised his voice a little to be heard over the insistent rhythmic thump of seventies disco music as they cued in front of a booth that was issuing white leather roller boots. Great, it looked like the only thing he’d be taking home tonight would be a nice dose of foot fungus. Or not, if he had any say about it.

“I’ll be over there, having a beer and watching you all making tits of yourselves okay?” he said, deciding to cut and run and spend the night propping up the wall and watch all the cute little arses fly by.

Plus, he was hardly likely to pull on the basis of his non-existent skating prowess.

“No you’re bloody not”, Sally grabbed his arm and dragged him back as he tried to make his escape to the bar for a much needed drink of alcohol, cringing with embarrassment at the snickers of laughter from a group of girls here for someone’s hen night. Great, laughed at by a woman in a pink mesh veil with clipped-on condoms and tiny plastic dicks all over it, mistaken for the hen-pecked boyfriend. Speaking of which.

“Where’s Anderson, I could’ve sworn he was here five minutes ago?” Greg’s eyes cast around, squinting past the flashing lights and the flickering disco ball that hung in the centre of the hall, and tried to distinguish faces amongst the heady blur of movement and colour.

Sally sniffed, “Yeah well, apparently I’m not good enough for wheels- of- fire, he’s……”.

She might have said something else, her mouth was still moving he could see it in his peripheral vision, but his attention was caught, arrested by the sight of a tall, lean figure skating backwards with ease, gliding skilfully through the press of bodies with ear-buds in and an i-pod clutched in his hand.

Fuck the belly-tops and hot-pants, now this, _this_ , was worth every single second of excruciating embarrassment.

Sherlock Holmes.

He had the same clothes on as he had that afternoon, knees slightly bent, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he moved around the floor, and his arse, gorgeous and plush, the waistband of his jeans just riding low enough to skim over the rise of two glorious biteable cheeks, stuck out like a fucking invitation. What would it be like to spread that apart and lick all the way up his crack, from balls to the base of his spine? Stick his tongue in that fluttering hole and just wriggle it, make him squirm and gasp, not knowing where to put himself, tugging at Greg’s hair, fisting his hands in the sheets and begging, just begging for more, a sweaty desperate mess…

“Earth to Greg?”

“What?”

“Christ you’re worse than Phil, what the fuck were you thinking about just then, got your eye on some hot girl already have you? Here, size ten, right?....Shoes, off, _now_.”

He nodded absently, his mind still elsewhere and toed off his trainers, handing them to the bloke in the booth as she shoved a pair of boots in his arms and dragged him over to a bench at the side where they could sit down and pull them on. Greg could feel his face growing hot. Hell, he was practically salivating over a sixteen year old boy.

A sixteen year old boy who shouldn’t even be in here.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Sally followed the direction of his gaze to it’s inevitable destination, “He’s what? Seventeen tops? Well anyway, nowhere near bloody old enough”.

“Alright, calm down mum, I’m sure he knows….it’s just a roller disco, and anyway, he looks a hell of a lot less of a dick than I’m about to”.

He tied off the laces in a double bow and attempted to stand, his left leg skidded off with a mind of its own and he sat back down in frustration.

“It’s just…” Sally stared at him, and worried the skin of her lip, “He’s just got trouble written all over him, you know? Big mouth, shitty attitude, and if he’s come here it sure as hell isn’t just to skate around in a circle by himself…someone must have brought him”.

“Parents?”

“Come off it Greg”, she scoffed, “I bet they’ve got no idea what he gets up to when their backs are turned”.

“Yeah, you’re probably right”. Greg looked at him thoughtfully, skimming around with ease. A girl in red hot-pants (not that he’d noticed), grabbed him round the waist from behind and he turned, laughing, and whispered something in her ear that made her blush and look down shyly, before gently taking her hands off his waist to hold them instead, guiding her around the room. He stopped after a circuit and kissed her on the cheek before moving off, lost in his own world once more.

Greg didn’t know what to make of it. The kid was stand-offish, downright rude most would say, or awkward at best, but he looked in his element here, relaxed, in control, undeniably sexy, and quite possibly, confusingly, straight.

Well that was a disappointment.

“Come on then Starlight Express, let’s get those chunky footballer’s thighs on the move”, she stood in front of him, balanced on the toe-stops and tugged on his arms to pull him up to standing. After a hairy few seconds which involved much flailing of arms and them both almost falling back down on their arses, he got the hang of it, mostly, moving in tiny stuttering steps with one arm flung out wide and the other wrapped tightly around her waist, and if that pissed Anderson off, then all the better, he might as well get something positive from this hideously embarrassing experience.

“Right…Greg please….you’re going to have to let go a bit…I can barely bloody move”, Sally grumbled after the second go round.

True, he was sort of dragging her down on one side, and he’d almost had them on the floor a couple of times, but he still felt like Bambi on ice on his own.

“Okay…just lets…right…over there”, he gestured towards the side of the hall, at a row of chairs set back against the wall, and they inched their way across, narrowly avoiding several full-on collisions. Sally let go and he dropped with an ‘oomph!’ and she skated away confidently. Show-off.

Shit, the bar was at the other side of the room. Greg licked his parched lips and tried to ignore the way his t-shirt was stuck to his skin. He was just at the point of reaching down to untie the damn things and pad across the floor in bare feet when a lightning fast blur crossed his vision and swooped down into the chair at his side.

“Thank god for that…I’ve been waiting for her to fuck off all night…thirsty?”

Christ yes, and not just for the water.

Greg took the bottle held out to him and cracked it open, draining more than half in one go. He wiped his hand across the back of his mouth and stared, amused at the boy by his side, head tilted back against the wall, regarding him coolly, his pale blue eyes iridescent in the flickering lights. It was almost hypnotic.

“Not got anything stronger?” he waved the bottle in Sherlock’s face, “Only, I think I’m going to need some dutch courage before I get off….shit…I mean…get up again”.

Great, nice one Greg, really smooth.

Sherlock smirked, “Well you see, they have these annoying _law things_ that mean you can’t serve alcohol to under eighteens”.

“In that case, you shouldn’t even be in here”.

“I know, not that you actually care”, the boy snapped back and smiled knowingly, in a way that made Greg’s chest thump, and a blush of sweat break out on the back of his neck, “And I’m not by the way…”, he said, rising gracefully to his feet and pushing off, skimming in a tight little circle in front of Greg’s chair and swooping to a stop, right between his parted legs. He bent down, warm breath tickling Greg’s ear.

“Not what?” said Greg, voice raised a little to be heard over the music, and his own thudding pulse.

“Straight….I know you were wondering”. 

“Oh, you know do you? Cocky little shit aren’t we now?” The answer part guilt part bravado to hide his embarrassment.

“Come on, admit it…you’ve been staring at my arse from the minute you saw me in here, even though you’re aware of my age and after you watched me kiss that girl…that was for your benefit by the way…and it took exactly five seconds for you to make up your mind, that even if I was straight you would still enjoy the view, and a wank later…probably…not sure about that last part”.

Great. Greg groaned, the urge to hide his hands in his face from humiliation burned strong, instead, he forced himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes, and felt his stomach swoop like a love-struck kid on a first date. So this year it was his turn for Sherlock’s special attention. Sally had spoken too soon.

“So, are you going to just sit there… or would you rather I teach you to skate, you know, so you don’t look like a complete useless twat when you bring me here next time?” His feline eyes were gleaming in the dark.

“Next time? Hang on, who the hell said anything about next time?”

Sherlock just snorted, as if that was obvious, and grabbed him by the hands, his touch tingling as soft warm palms pressed into his own. He let himself be pulled, remembering to dig in with his toes until he was upright and they stood almost eye to eye, Sherlock just a fraction shorter and so close he could see Sherlock’s hair ripple at the side above his ear, caught in an exhale of breath.

Just as his eyes flickered down, taking in the delicate curve of his mouth, sure it must taste twice as good as it looked, Sherlock spun in a tight pirouette and settled back directly in front of him with his arse barely brushing the front of Greg’s jeans.

Seriously, he could’ve cried.

If he didn’t come in his pants first, that is.

“Here, hold on, and for god’s sake relax and keep your weight forward”.

Sherlock positioned Greg’s hands on his waist, resting just above the waistband of his jeans. Greg could feel the heat of his skin through the thin white cotton of his t-shirt and the smooth, deceptively muscled expanse of his stomach where Greg's fingers curved around to the front. He was so fucking toned, not an ounce of spare flesh on him. Apart from that arse, Christ, that shouldn’t even be possible.

“You need to push out”, Sherlock called over his shoulder, ripping his attention back. He risked a look down, saw Sherlock’s legs glide out to the sides then back in again, in an undulating wave that propelled them both forward. “You might want to try and copy…I’m not supposed to be dragging you along”.

“Right…sorry”, he said, shimmying up closer to the back of Sherlock’s neck, “I was a little bit distracted”.

“Obviously”.

Greg tried, he really did, hesitantly rolling his legs out and in again, aware the Sherlock was still doing most of the work and pointedly ignoring the slack-jawed stares they were garnering on the way around. Especially the “Fucking hell!” from Anderson and Sally’s disapproving glare. He tried an apologetic shrug, unsuccessfully, knocking himself off-balance and dragging Sherlock down, backwards on top of him as his left foot skidded out from underneath him. They landed heavily, and Greg concluded that for a skinny little shit, he definitely had some weight to him. He could already feel the ache in his balls from the impact. And his arse hurt, a sharp pain in his coccyx that radiated up his spine.

Sherlock sat back in his lap, firm plump arse pressed into his thighs while the mass of skaters still moved around them, marooned together on the polished wooden floor. Well that was elegant. They made no move to get up straight away, and he could feel Sherlock shift against him, so he parted his legs just a little to let him slide down in between. Sherlock leant back, his t-shirt adhering to his skin with sweat, and Greg could smell it too, the musky scent of deodorant, hastily reapplied over unwashed skin, shockingly masculine and arousing. Without even thinking, either about where they were or who might be watching, Greg bent his head down and softly inhaled, nose nestled into soft damp curls, citrus shampoo and cigarette smoke, he thought absently, as he let his hands wander for a moment, sliding underneath the t-shirt to rest against searingly hot, soft skin. The beat of the music pulsed in his throat, and he swallowed around a hard, dry lump in his throat.

How the hell did he end up here?

Sherlock jerked forward, out of his grip and wriggled impatiently to free himself, and a lead weight settled inside Greg’s chest as he cursed at himself for pushing it, because despite the cocky exterior, Sherlock might not appreciate being publicly groped by a hairy almost twenty-one year old would-be copper at a roller disco.

Sherlock turned, and cocked an eyebrow in question, holding out his hands again to help Greg up. He took them, because there was just no way he’d be able to get up gracefully, either with help or especially without, and he struggled to his feet again, much harder from a sitting position, made harder by the way the V of Sherlock’s top gaped, flashing smooth pale skin and small, neat nipples just begging to be sucked.

Fuck.

Sherlock let go again, and he slapped back down on his arse, hard, the shock of it winding him.

“What did you do that for? Christ…”

Sherlock looked down and frowned at him for a second, silent, then spun on his toe, skating off at speed in the other direction with his head bowed down, expertly manouvering around the meandering couples as a slow song came over the speakers.

Greg stared, bewildered at his retreating back, as Sherlock disappeared through the double doors to the exit.


	3. You Can't Always Get What You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock stepped forward and god knows how, immediately found his belt, sliding the leather through the loops at the sides and popping the buckle before Greg's brain caught up and he put out his hands to stop him...

 

 

“Hard luck mate…you’ve just been mugged-off by a school kid”.

“Fuck off Anderson”.

Greg undid the laces on the boots, with angry little twists of his fingers. There was no way he would attempt to get up again with them on in front of everyone, he felt enough of a berk as it was. He had literally sat here and sniffed the back of some teenagers head with a semi forming in his jeans in front of a roomful of people. No the wonder Sherlock had bolted.

But if that was the reason, why all the flirting? And it most definitely had been. Flirting, of the blatant, outrageous variety.

It was very likely a crap idea, but scraping his dignity off the floor, Greg scrambled to his feet, boots in hand and plodded to the booth to collect his shoes and examine his conscience too.

Why him? Greg had to be honest, he’d never been short of attention or offers, but that didn’t make him an arsehole. Of course he’d had more than his share of one night stands, a serious girlfriend in high school that lasted two years, and a couple that had stretched to more than a week or two in Uni, boys, girls, if it turned him on he was in there and that’s the way he wanted to keep things for now. Twenty was much too young to settle, but then again, Sherlock Holmes didn’t seem like the settling type either.

So…

He headed for the exit. After all, how far could Sherlock get without his shoes, unless he planned on skating home, four miles on country roads in the dark, alone? He could offer him a lift back to camp, something neutral, friendly, no pressure, with four other people in the car. Anderson wouldn’t mind, and even if he did then fuck it, Greg would just have to owe him one.

Greg squinted in the hazy light from the street lamp overhead, the air surprisingly still with just a faint thump, thump, pulsing from the half-open doors of the club. Now where would he go?

He didn’t have to look very far, hearing rather than seeing at first, that voice that he could recognise blindfolded. Sherlock was standing, no, lounging against the side of a Toyota Hilux. His shoes had made a miraculous reappearance and so had a soft leather jacket, draped around his shoulders while his arms remained stubbornly bare. He was talking to some bloke, about the same age, or maybe slightly older, taking long, deep drags on a cigarette and waving it absently in the air as he spoke, their voices becoming louder and more animated as Greg hung back and watched, unsure what he was actually looking at - friend, boyfriend, hook-up?

The bloke snatched the half-finished fag from Sherlock’s gesticulating hand and dropped it to the ground, crushing it underfoot, Sherlock’s lip curled in annoyance, the expression stifled when his head was dragged forward by a possessive hand, pulled into a messy snog.

Right, so he already had a boyfriend, time to leave. But something, just something glued his feet to the ground and he cursed inwardly, melting back into the shadows at the side of the building. They pulled apart and Greg was relieved. He felt a bit of a perv, to be honest, watching the lad he fancied giving it, pretty enthusiastically to someone else. But then the bloke reached in his pocket, and took something out of a clear plastic bag, he held it up between forefinger and thumb, Sherlock laughed a little, bent forward and whispered something in his ear, and the bloke laughed back, winding his free hand around Sherlock’s waist and putting the, whatever it was that he held, into his mouth and pulling Sherlock in again.

Fuck. Right. He’d passed him a pill of some sort, Greg wasn’t stupid, he’d been around. So this was what he did, Sherlock, tried to pick up older blokes in clubs and snog drugs from people’s mouths.

Bullet dodged then.

He had just turned to go, just rounded the corner to head back in for the last half hour when he heard Sherlock swearing, a muffled ‘fuck you’ and the sound of rubber soles scuffling on concrete. Shit, great, breaking up a fight was not on his list of to-do’s for the night. Greg cursed and turned back, just in time to see Sherlock twisting angrily as the bloke pinned him to the side of the van by his wrists. Sherlock spat and hissed like a feral cat, tried to get a knee up, first the left then the right as they grappled awkwardly half way between aggression and something entirely different…

Finally Sherlock connected, a hard bony kneecap into soft sensitive flesh and Greg winced in universal sympathy despite himself as the larger boy let out a strangled yelp of pain. He released one wrist with a snarl of anger and slapped Sherlock hard across the face with a resounding smack that made his head jerk back, smacking off the window of the van with a dull thud.

Nope. No way was the bastard going to get away with that.

Greg closed the gap and was on him in seconds. He grabbed him around the waist and tackled him down to the ground, twisting his arms up behind his back and pushing up hard enough to make the bones crack, just to make his intentions clear. Greg hunkered down with a warning knee pressed into the small of his back, pulse pounding with adrenaline.

“Greg!... What the fuck!” Sherlock paced the space between the van and the prone, groaning body, the livid pink outline on his cheek luminescent in the security lights.

“Great, not even a thank you, you stupid little fucker, make it a habit to let your boyfriends beat the crap out of you?”

“Boyfriend?”, Sherlock snorted, pulling up short and regaining his composure somewhat. “Hardly”.

“Slumming it tonight are you Sherlock?”, said the squirming bloke beneath him, gasping against the pressure on his lungs. He was younger than Greg had first thought, seventeen, eighteen at a push, heavy-set, slicked black hair, and a certain indefinable slyness while everything about him screamed money and not due to the overabundance of pills in his jeans pocket either.

“Get back in that fucking club now”, Greg growled at Sherlock, twisting his arms up a little bit more, “Me and your mate are just going to have a friendly little chat, and then I’m taking you home, and don’t you dare fucking argue”, he added as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, mouth clamping shut again when he saw how livid Greg was, “You lost that right when you swallowed whatever the hell that was, and then let this scumbag slap the shit out of you…. now do as you’re fucking told”.

Sherlock backed away, but resolutely refused to turn around, the awkward little shit, only retreating as far as the entrance to the car park. He hovered, bouncing around on his toes, full of nervous energy, or high, probably.

Greg groaned, how the hell did he get himself into this shit? His fists itched with the effort of holding back, weighing up the satisfaction it would give to sink his fist in against the distinct possibility of a night in a holding cell and an assault charge. This one looked just the type to run to daddy rather than fight it out like a man, and joining the police was his dream and that could all end with one ill-advised brawl.

He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked the blokes head up from the ground, “Looks like it’s your lucky night mate, I’m not in the mood to kick your arse, so just get yourself back in daddy’s big posh four wheel drive and don’t even think about seeing him again…okay?”, he jerked his head towards Sherlock for emphasis, just to hammer it home.

The bloke scrambled up, and fumbled with his keys, and practically flew around to the other side and jumped in, slamming the door. The van started up with a guttural roar and the gears ground noisily as he slammed it into reverse, then first and forward. The window wound down as he passed, a smirk back on his face as he looked Greg square in the eye. “About the seeing him again….rather hard to miss him as it goes…we share a dorm room at school…and yes, a bed too….best way to get him to shut the hell up, put that pretty mouth to better use…he’s fucking unbearable otherwise...you'll see”.

Before he could react, the tyres screeched and van pulled noisily out of the carpark, Sherlock flipping the finger as it shot by and took a sharp right back towards the M4.

“What exactly are you doing out here?” Sherlock drawled, lighting up another cigarette, back against the wall, one leg crossed over the other looking supremely unconcerned for someone who’d been on the receiving end of quite a vicious slap. Or perhaps he was just faking it, given away by the minute clench of his jaw, barely perceptible.

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the only one who saw things, Greg was bloody good at spotting what other people missed.

He huffed, incredulous, as Sherlock shifted, the hand with the cigarette lingered close to his face, a tell that spoke volumes to Greg. “Oh, no thank you then, for just saving your arse?”

“Please”, Sherlock scoffed, “From him? He’s just some dick from school, a fucking irritating moron”.

“Yeah…about that” Greg stalked over and Sherlock backed away, but with the wall at his back there was nowhere to go and he eyed him warily, hands splayed at his sides, pressed against the brick. Greg lifted his hand and Sherlock flinched. Just some dickhead from school was he? I knew I should have punched the little git, Greg thought, feeling a heady mix of anger and protectiveness. He raised a brow and Sherlock relaxed, while Greg touched his face and lifted an eyelid, unsurprised at the wide black pupil with the faintest outline of silvery iris. He scrubbed his hands across his face and sighed. “Jesus Sherlock….really? I thought you were bright…bright enough not to do shit like this…do your parents even know you’re out?”

Sherlock shuffled his feet nervously, eyes fixed on the ground. “That’s a no then?... Right genius”, Greg grabbed his arm, “Come on”. Surprisingly, he met no resistance.

The ride back to the camp was tense. Anderson hadn’t wanted to take him, and Sally looked daggers at the pair of them all the way back, her arms folded angrily across her chest. Sherlock was wedged between Greg and the door, the heat from his body pleasantly warm pressed against Greg’s side. Any further questions were met with non-committal shrugs and wilfully petulant silence. They all piled out at the car park in front of the staff quarters, Anderson point blank refusing to take Sherlock right to his door.

“I’ll walk you up there”, he offered.

“For fuck’s sake I’m not five”.

“It’s two in the morning, you can’t see shit on that track, humour me for god’s sake”.

A ghost of a smile played on Sherlock’s lips as they set off, side by side. Sherlock flipped his phone to torch, lighting the way as they picked a path along the dirt track to the Holmes’ cabin. The trees whispered around them, branches cracked and unseen creatures scampered in the darkness and it dawned on Greg he would have to come back the same way on his own. It was not a pleasant thought.

“This is all very chivalrous but I can manage from here, thanks”.

Sherlock stopped on the track, the cabin just visible twenty yards or so ahead, the outside light shining like a beacon on the front porch. He switched off the torch light and slid the phone back in his pocket, and then, it was the two of them, facing each other in the dark.

“Shouldn’t you be going in then?”

Greg nodded towards the cabin, stupidly, not sure how this was supposed to go. Did he turn around and leave, or see if that spark he was sure they had might take this somewhere? Was it even appropriate anymore and did he even want it to, because this kid was so different to everything Greg had thought he might be? What was it with him and complicated? A simple summer fling with someone who was up for it, no strings, that had been the plan, but maybe, just maybe, he was over thinking this whole thing and maybe he should just …jump in?

Greg leant forward, hesitant now the moment was here, and when he could feel soft breath on his face, still and waiting, not retreating, he placed his hands on Sherlock’s waist and pressed forward that extra inch. They hovered for a second, so close he could feel the pull, a tingling on the surface of his skin, Sherlock’s breathy little sigh and a hitch in his throat, and then it really happened, that curl in the gut, delicious, blood pumping and hot as hell. Christ, his lips were so soft, just made to be kissed, slow and gentle so he could savour every second of it. Perfect. Better than he ever imagined it.

There, he thought, slowing it down with reluctance and pulling back, the biggest test to his self- restraint he’d ever bloody had. That was enough for tonight. The kid might still be high, or on a come-down at least, and Greg was not, and never would be that guy. There would be other nights like this he hoped, other nights to take things further - minus the illegal substances.

“Is that it?”

“What?” Greg blinked in confusion, not exactly used to such a negative reaction to a snog. He was pretty good at this, so he’d been told.

“You brought me home, walked me back in the dark…and that’s it…one kiss that’s all you’re going to do?”

“Well yeah…you know…we’ve only just met…..”

“No….No we haven’t…I’ve been coming here even longer than you have, three summers and this is the fourth, that hardly counts as just met”, Sherlock’s voice was indignant, and Greg was sure if he could see his face those pretty pink lips would be curled in disdain. That train of thought was really not helping.

“Come on Sherlock, you know what I mean, it’s not as if we’ve ever spoken before this year and this does sort of change things between us, look”, Greg, sighed, this was not how he wanted things to go. Maybe Sally was right, maybe he should have listened to his gut and left well alone. Sherlock was young, impetuous and determined to stomp over every boundary Greg would try to put up, regardless of the consequence. Four years older was perhaps too much. “Maybe this was a bad idea after…you know…. Sorry…. Just go home, forget it….forget…whatever the hell this is,“ he waved his arms in a gesture of frustration.

“You can fuck me if you want.”

Sherlock stepped forward and god knows how, immediately found his belt, sliding the leather through the loops at the sides and popping the buckle before Greg’s brain caught up and he put out his hands to stop him .

“Jesus Sherlock….What? No!” He was not hearing this, he really wasn’t. He held two skinny wrists in his hands and firmly pushed them back, away from him.

“What’s wrong? I thought this was what you wanted. Why? Don’t you like me?”

“Of course I like you”, he answered, truthfully. The kid was an enigma, a raging ball of crazy, but yes, god help him, Greg liked him. Maybe more than a lot.

“Then why not? I’ve done it loads of times… I’m not a virgin…if that’s what you’re worried about…”

Shit. Once free of Greg’s grip on his wrists Sherlock had closed the gap again, stepping right into his personal space, the only warning warm breath on his neck before he felt the wet touch of a tongue, tracing around the shell of his ear. Oh god he was in trouble. It took every ounce of willpower he had to bring his hands to shoulder height and firmly, insistently push Sherlock back.

“I’ll tell you why not if you give me a chance… and if you stop being such a bloody tart…. You’re probably still high, your parents are probably wondering where you are, I’m staff, you’re a guest, I’m nearly twenty-one, and you’re sixteen…shall I go on?” He sincerely hoped the answer was no, because that was all he could think of for now without delving into the realms of inappropriate sexual fantasies involving naked bodies and roller-skates. Best keep those to himself because the mood that Sherlock was in, he would take it as an invitation.

“And a half”.

“Huh?”

“I’m sixteen and a half…and _nearly_ twenty-one means still only twenty so that’s even less of an age gap”.

“Yeah, like the extra six months make all the difference”.

“Well they do”, Sherlock snapped, in annoyance, “Six months younger and I could see your point, but it’s sort of pathetic to try that excuse when you just had your tongue in my mouth…something else must have changed your mind…”.

“Yeah well, you’re a bit full-on mate…it’s kind of…unnerving… you know?”

“That’s not what people usually say”.

“And what do they usually say?”

“The fuck do I know…they’re usually balls deep by then…and that’s not really the time for deep and meaningful conversation now, is it?”

Greg sighed, a harsh huff of breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Christ, whoever had let this kid believe that this sort of behaviour was appropriate, that it was okay, that this was how you made friends, or kept them, Greg would seriously love to meet the bastard down a dark alley one night and seriously beat the shit out of them. Let’s just say, he had his suspicions.

“Yeah well, I guess I’m not _usual_ people", he managed finally, aware even through the impenetrable black, of Sherlock’s eyes fixed upon him. Greg could hear his breaths, shallow and quick, the barely contained electrical charge of unrestrained adolescent energy. It scared him a little, how quickly and completely this kid had made him _feel_ things. But how could he make Sherlock understand that they had to step back and walk away, for tonight at least?

It wasn’t a _never_ , more of a _not yet._

“Go home Sherlock”, he sighed, “I’ll see you tomorrow”.

A twig snapped underfoot, like a whip-crack in the silence and a shadow moved off walking swiftly up the track, departing with a muffled ‘fuck off’.

Greg stood and watched until a pale, thin figure stepped up onto the porch, unlocked the door and disappeared inside, and only then when the door was closed and Sherlock was safe did he turn and pick his way back down, flinching at every brush of a branch against his arm or sinister rustle in the undergrowth.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The M4 is the main motorway from London to South Wales.


	4. Terminological Inexactitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room was hot, but Sherlock shivered at his touch, leaning forward into his space and tracing the tip of his tongue along the seam of Greg's lips.  
> Who the hell even kissed like that?  
> It had to be the hottest thing he'd ever had done to his mouth and he was hardly new at all this...

 

 

The following day was pool duty day and Greg was aching from head to toe. He considered himself to be reasonably fit but skating, even badly, used muscles that he didn’t know he had. Christ he felt old.

The first set of screaming kids and harassed looking parents streamed through the changing room doors, not exactly the picture of relaxation they’d been hoping for from a grand a week for the unpredictable British weather. He handed out wrist bands in exchange for locker keys, then climbed the ladder to the lifeguard chair, and settled back. It was mostly boring as shit, the worst it got were ten year old boys, bombing in the shallow end, or yanking each other’s swimming shorts down for a laugh. Some of the mums were hot, stretched out on the loungers, perfectly coiffed with a full face of make-up with not the slightest inclination of dipping so much as a toe in the water.

He kept one eye on the pool and the other on the scantily clad arses and tanned midriffs below.

Sherlock rocked up around half past ten, in a sloppy grey t-shirt, stretched wide at the neck and navy-blue shorts that emphasized his porcelain skin. He headed for a lounger, book in hand, eyes hidden from view by sunglasses, and Greg could only stare as he stretched out on his stomach, pointedly facing the opposite way, while he wriggled to find a more comfortable position, the material of his shorts stretched tight over the swell of his arse.

And shit, was that the hint of a tat peeping over the top of the waistband?

Sherlock Holmes had a tramp stamp. The teasing little shit.

Greg would not look, he would not look.

Damn.

~*~

So, he was getting the silent treatment, nice, very mature.

Sherlock had stayed for the full three hour session, he turned from his front to his back, stood up to stretch, pulled his top over his head, walked around the pool to the deep end and executed a perfect dive from the side, swimming half a length before he finally came up for air. Greg was hypnotized, watching him swim up and down, lean, muscled body cutting through the water with speed, ease and elegance, and completely aware of how gorgeous he looked.

He could see the mum’s taking surreptitious peeks from behind their trashy fifty shades of shite books, and Christ, when he swam to the side and pulled himself up and out, water cascading off his hair and down his back, glistening in the late morning sun, he looked like model , perfectly untouchable. He shook his head like a dog, dark curls bouncing, still heavy with water as he stalked past the lifeguards chair.

Phil turned up for the changeover and Greg reached up for the towel draped over the back of the high-backed chair, painfully aware he would need a little help to make it off the poolside, and possibly a minute or two alone in his cabin to get his head straight and his dick under control again. All it took was a few quick pumps. He hadn’t shot off so fast since the time he’d tried to shag Amy Willis in Year twelve, or felt so wrung out and annoyingly unsatisfied afterward.

Sherlock appeared again that afternoon when Greg was setting up the ballroom for the line-dancing lesson, trailing bored and listless behind his endlessly prattling mother. And again at the stables when Greg was on a break, sunglasses on to hide his eyes cruising absently by on fucking skateboard this time. Kick push, kick push glide, the wheels rattling faintly over the cracks in the asphalt pathway.

Greg watched his progress greedily, while he shared a fag with Sally and sipped on a Styrofoam cup of bitter lukewarm coffee.

“Someone’s got a crush”, she nudged him in the arm.

He jumped a little guiltily, not knowing who she meant at first, Sherlock or him. Was it that obvious he’d been staring? He huffed a laugh and shook his head.

“Come off it Greg, everyone’s noticed he’s been following you around all bloody afternoon”.

“Has he?”

“Yeah right…as if you didn’t know”. She jumped down from her perch on the top rung of the fence, jodhpur-clad, ready for the pony trek that was starting in an hour. She froze for a second, one hand on the rail as she stared at him, open-mouthed. “Oh my god…you didn’t… _you know_ , last night, did you? Just watch yourself mate…he’s hardly worth getting the sack for”.

Greg bristled at her words, shit, did she even know Sherlock? Yeah she had a reason not to like him, the kid had a habit of honing in on the very thing you didn’t want to think about. And yeah, admittedly, it was hardly his most endearing quality. Greg wasn’t sure if Sherlock knew, or even cared if his revelations hurt anyone, but then again, no-one must have shown him much consideration if he thought he had to offer sex to get people to like him. How messed-up was that?

“No, we didn’t _you know_ , as you so politely put it”, he snapped, affronted that she even dared to ask. Yeah Greg could be a bit of a slut, but Sally had been there last night, saw the slap mark on Sherlock’s face and noticed as well as he had, the twitching, nervous energy of someone riding a high. Did she really think him the type to take advantage? They could hardly have left him at the club on his own, cause obviously that twat had been his lift home and he wouldn’t be back in a hurry if he knew what was good for him.

“I kissed him”, he admitted, “He made a pass and I turned him down, right? Satisfied?” Not that he owed an explanation. At least he wasn’t a cheat or slept with people he already knew were attached.

Sally snorted and shook her head, “Christ, that’s a first Greg”.

“Yeah, well”. Greg stubbed out the fag on the gatepost, tired of the conversation and watched until Sherlock disappeared over the rise of the hill, alone. Three years, the same families returning time and time again, and yet for all that, he hadn’t made a single friend? Greg gazed around the enclosure where small groups had begun to gather, and with a pang, he realised Sherlock wasn’t the only one maintaining a stubborn, pointless silence, he hadn’t put himself in the firing line either.

They at least had to talk about last night.

“Right, I’m off”, he said as he pushed himself off from the fence and crumpled the empty cup in his hand. “And if anyone asks just say I’ve gone on the coastal walk”.

“Where are you really going?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

He shrugged his shoulders and walked away, feet crunching on the fine gravel surface. If he hurried he might just catch him on the track somewhere between here and the main building. The campsite was vast, no-one would miss him for an hour or so if he decided to slip off site. Greg headed back towards the outdoor pool then round to the right to the staff quarters to pick up his car keys and wallet. A drive to the coast might be a good idea. It was only two miles, they could walk it in an hour, but that would take too long, he had half an hour, three quarters tops before questions were asked about where he’d gone.

He popped his card in the lock and ducked into the cabin, heading straight for his room where the keys were sat in a bowl by his bed. He reached down, grabbed them and frowned, the bed had been made and now it was mussed, the faint indentation of a prone form and a lone, strand of hair, curling and black in the centre of the starched white pillow.

“Going somewhere?”

Greg jumped, a reflex reaction. Sherlock appeared in the doorway a mug of tea in hand, sipping casually at the liquid from a blue chipped mug, Greg’s favourite that his Nan bought him that he resolutely refused to throw out. He had long shorts on, different from this morning, and the waistband sat low on his hips revealing a tantalising glimpse of neat black underwear. His t-shirt was…not on his body, draped on the back of the sofa in the living room and Greg could see a slight sheen of sweat glistening across a smooth, lightly tanned chest.

He remembered to breathe then, and to stop staring, dragging his eyes up to Sherlock’s face.

“Making yourself at home I see….How did you get in?”

“Really Greg? The security in this place is laughable, took about three seconds to pick the lock and walk straight in. And the bathroom window was open, I could’ve come in that way too”.

Sherlock picked his way across the room, brushing past and padding on bare feet to the bed where he sat down, cup still in hand. “So are we going to do this?”

Greg made a vaguely embarrassing choking sound, “What?”

“Talk”, Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. He placed the cup down on the bedside table and patted the space beside him on the mattress. “Why, did you think I came here to try and seduce you again?”

Greg sniggered despite himself and Sherlock frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Sorry…sorry, it’s just, seduce….what do you think this is, some bodice-ripping romance?”

Greg took a seat beside him, fingers twitching with the urge to wipe away that little cute furrow between Sherlock’s brows. He tried not to think of how close they were, the heat from his skin, the freckles on Sherlock’s shoulders and the faint creased lines across his stomach as he sat, bent forward, looking down at his empty hands. He was nervous.

Greg cleared his throat. “So, going to tell me who that charmer was last night are you? Boyfriend?”

Sherlock snorted derisively, “I don’t _do_ boyfriends”.

“Okay then” Greg tried again, “Fuck-buddy? All round general dickhead who feeds your recreational drug habit, talks to you like you’re a piece of shit and smacks you round the head?” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, and Greg, on a roll, put up his hand to cut him off. “Please don’t tell me you’re happy with that”.

“Why do you care?” said Sherlock, but not in an accusatory way, but in a tone of genuine confusion and surprise, head cocked and gazing at him thoughtfully.

“Why? Oh I don’t know”, he answered, “same as anyone with half a brain and an ounce of compassion really…that’s not how it’s done”.

“How what’s done?”

“What do you think?…..relationships…. love”.

“Love”, Sherlock spluttered, “That’s rich coming from you. In the three weeks from the start of your contract you’ve already slept with two people and snogged at least three more…tell me Greg did you _love_ them? Were you in a _relationship_? I bet you don’t even remember their names…and anyway who the hell said anything about love, I hardly know you, that’s ridiculous”.

He flopped back sullenly, bouncing against the mattress with his arms folded defensively across his chest. His mouth was set in a cute little pout and despite the venomous outburst it was all quite adorable.

“I wasn’t talking about me and you, you twat…I meant that dick from last night…and it was Helen and Paul, just in case you were wondering…and you’re right, the snogs I was pissed, so no, I don’t remember who they were and it wasn’t three, it was four…and I’m not even going to bother asking how the hell you knew all that”. He threw his hands in the air, exasperated. This kid was impossible.

Sherlock smiled at that, his tense face relaxing as he rolled over onto his side and shot out a tentative hand, gently running the back of his fingers along the side of Greg’s thigh.

“So what exactly is it that you want from me?”

Greg shivered, skin tingling through his white cotton shorts, breath hitching a little as he said, “Respect yourself a bit more maybe? Whoever he is…he doesn’t deserve you”.

“No?...And you do?”

Greg lay down too, and turned on his side to face him, “I don’t know…I’ll leave that up to you”.

“He’s nothing", Sherlock whispered, "He’s not my boyfriend... not my anything…”

Sherlock stilled his hand and for a second he thought he had blown it, but then he shuffled closer, using Greg’s belt for leverage. He put out a hand and pressed it to Greg’s chest and lifted his head to gaze through impossibly long dark lashes. This close Greg could see his eyes weren’t just blue but the most amazing mix of grey and green and even yellow too. He held his breath not wanting to push, no pressure, demands, just let Sherlock come to him again. It was all he could do not to reach out and run his hands down that gloriously bare skin, to feel every dip and hollow of his rib cage and thumb across the taught little peaks of his nipples, already standing out, hard.

“Yes” Sherlock breathed, and Greg wondered if he’d actually spoken out loud, but he took it as an invitation anyhow, running his palms up the warm soft skin of Sherlock’s back, rough calloused fingers tracing through a fresh damp sheen of sweat. The room was hot, but Sherlock shivered at his touch, leaning forward into his space and tracing the tip of his tongue along the seam of Greg’s lips.

Who the hell even kissed like that?

It had to be the hottest thing he’d ever had done to his mouth and he was hardly new at all this.

He groaned and Sherlock smiled against his lips, flicking and wriggling them open and descending, open-mouthed and insistent, moving against him, a bite, a tug, latching on to his lower lip to suck and pull to the border of pain. So that was how it was going to go, the devious little shit. Greg growled in frustration, pushing Sherlock back and rolling on top to pin him, taking hold of his wrists and drawing them up to brace either side of his head. Sherlock squirmed, breathing hard, and Greg pulled back to stare down, and gave himself up to temptation, lowering his mouth to a nub of pebbled skin to suck, hungrily.

“Oh fuck”. Sherlock arched towards him fingers finding purchase in the longer layers of his hair. And maybe he didn’t mean to, but he pulled and it hurt, so Greg moved to the other side, laving over the sensitive skin then holding it taught with his teeth, the tip of his tongue flickering across the tip.

“Ah, Ah, Oh god….Stop”.

“What?” Greg’s head shot up, releasing the nipple with a wet pop. It was glistening with saliva, red and puffy with a little circle of teeth marks round the edge.

Gorgeous.

“Someone just came in” Sherlock answered, scrambling backwards and whispering hoarsely. He looked wrecked, hair all mussed, lips pink and swollen, naked to the waist and hard. The khaki material of his board shorts showing a small dark stain where he’d begun to leak through his underwear. To be fair, Greg thought, he probably didn’t look much better, and at least they hadn’t stopped because Sherlock wasn’t enjoying it, the evidence pointing decisively to the opposite.

Whatever happened to a simple little kiss?

“Lestrade? Are you in there?”

Shit, the manager. He shot an anxious look at Sherlock and pressed a finger to his lips. As silently as possible they drew apart, Greg pushed up from the bed and padded across the floor to the half-closed door while Sherlock sat up, the mattress creaking faintly, and ran his fingers through dishevelled curls to tame them. Greg glanced back and sucked in a breath. He looked fucking incredible.

“Er, yeah…whadda you want?” he called, dragging his eyes away as he stumbled out through the door, ripping his top off before he stepped out, pretending he’d just popped back for a change of clothes. “Been to the stables, stank like horse-shit, sorry”.

Bill, the manager grunted, unconvinced, his narrow shifty eyes flickering around the tiny living space. He looked towards the bedroom door and said, half-jokingly, “You’re not shagging some bird in there, are ya?”

“Course I’m not”. Greg hid his flaming cheeks in the folds of his t-shirt as he pulled it back over his head, willing Bill not to notice the rather small white t-shirt on the sofa back, which definitely did not belong to him.

“Pool, now”, Bill snapped, fat chins quivering, “There’s a block in the filter and we can’t bloody find the maintenance guy…you know what you’re doing? Good lad…five minutes or I’ll have to dock you an hour”, he shrugged in mock apology, “Sorry, it’s company policy”.

Greg flipped him off as he wobbled back out through the door. Wanker.

The potential shag of his life and he’d just been cock-blocked by dodgy pool equipment.

“Sherlock?” The cabin was ominously silent. Greg walked back into the bedroom and saw the bed, now deserted and the window thrown wide open, curtains billowing back into the room. Sherlock’s t-shirt was still draped on the back of the sofa, still damp to the touch with sweat as Greg picked it up and squeezed it in his hands undecided if he should leave it, or take it now and find him, finish what they’d started. Christ he wanted to, that smooth lean body trapped beneath him, long legs wrapped around his waist to pull him in.

He crossed the room and closed the window with a snap cutting off the welcome breeze and picked up the cold mug of tea to tip it down the sink, huffing in annoyance at a small piece of paper sticking out from underneath. He peeled it off where it had stuck to the mug and sat down on the bed to read it, confused, the words not making sense, the meaning no clearer no matter how many times he read them.

Sorry I lied

SH 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A flip to Sherlock's POV next chapter - it's time to find out how he feels about Greg, and what that message meant.


	5. Night Swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gasped as warm, strong hands caught him around the waist from behind. The icy water raised goose-flesh over naked tingling skin, bobbing together in the swell as each wave rolled past...

 

 

Sherlock jumped cat-like from the open window, his bare feet barely making a sound on the wooden boards below. He looked back before he ran at the curtains blowing inward to frame the rumpled bed where he’d lain just seconds before. His shoes were in there, his t-shirt too, but they would have to wait until later, he had to get out now before he fucked this up again like he had last night.

Sherlock worried over the message as he ran, those three cryptic words that were all he’d had time to scrawl in the split second that he’d realised he had to leave before it went too far. All because of a stupid fucking lie. He dodged behind the bush where he’d left his skateboard and waiting until he was out of earshot before he dropped it to the ground with a clatter and pushed off, weaving round the families walking back from the pool, earning tuts of disapproval as he went against the flow.

Fuck it.

Why should he care, he’d just been kissed by Greg Lestrade, lain on his bed and been bitten and marked. He brushed a hand across his chest the skin still stinging and tingling, the teeth marks already faded to nothing even though he still felt them there. The breeze ruffled his hair, lifting and settling till every trace of Greg’s fingers smoothing and winding through the thick dark curls had been erased.

Sherlock hopped off the kerb and flicked up onto the next, and when he hit the incline which meant he had to push he hopped down, cursing and wincing as he scampered over the soft mulch and wood chippings which served for a pathway to the upper cabins. He was out of breath and felt ridiculous, the way his heart pumped harder when he passed that spot on the path where they’d stood last night, the soft gentle kiss, that should have been enough, more than he could have hoped for and that Sherlock had spoiled by grabbing at Greg’s belt and saying Greg could fuck him.

Oh god.

There was no-one there to see but his cheeks flamed anyway, as they had last night in the dark, stung by the shame of rejection. He blamed the speed, then he blamed himself for taking it, Seb for the fact he’d left the club and gone outside and what happened after that that had given Greg the wrong idea. Sherlock wasn’t sure how much he’d seen or what he’d heard but Seb pinned to the floor with Greg’s knee pressed into his back and telling Greg they were sleeping together at school, well let’s just say pounding his fat fucking head into the concrete would have been wonderfully satisfying.

***

_“Why the fuck are you still here?”_

_Sherlock stalked across the carpark. Seb grinned, the smug, insufferable git and waived a clear plastic bag of white pills in his face, looking like the cat that got the cream when he sensed Sherlock waver and swallow whatever hostile tirade he’d planned._

_“Thought you might need something to keep the party going Sherl, or we could go somewhere, my parents have gone to London for the weekend”._

_Sherlock snorted, dropping to a casual walk. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slid one out, placed it between his lips and lit it with an engraved silver lighter, stolen from Mycroft’s office on Sherlock’s last visit. Mycroft didn’t even smoke, so it had seemed a small mercy to take it off his hands and remove the temptation to ever partake. At least he would actually use the damn thing._

_He blew out a stream of smoke. Did Seb seriously think he would spend the night at his house?_

_He brushed past the larger boy and leant with his arms folded against the side of the bulky van._

_“Well?” he said, a mix of sarcasm and contempt, ignoring the invitation and holding out his palm in expectation._

_Seb shook his head, “Come on now Sherlock, do you really think it’s that easy? I don’t just give it away for free”._

_“Oh? And what makes you think I do?”_

_Seb smiled, toothy and shark-like, “Because I’ve got something you want”._

_He ripped the cigarette from Sherlock’s lips, dropped it to the ground and scrubbed it out with the sole of his shoe. His right hand shot out, gripped at the back of Sherlock’s scalp, and pulled him in closer. He kept up some resistance at first, straining back against the equally persistent push, until he decided the end was worth a little momentary repulsion, trying not to think too hard and breaking it down to mechanics in his head instead. Head at this angle, move your lips around, try not to gag on his tongue when he fucks your mouth and thinks it’s sexy even when you gag a little._

_Seb pulled off triumphant and Sherlock turned his head away to rub at a string of saliva that wasn’t his, hating himself a little that he’d given in and let it happen for the sake of a little white cap of amphetamine sulphate._

“ _Come on then” he snapped, impatient now, “Fairs fair, give it here”._

_Seb fished in the bag, held up the white pill and with a teasing smile popped it into his open mouth, waggling his tongue and raising an expectant eyebrow. Sherlock laughed, a harsh bark at the sheer fucking audacity, “You’re a twat and you owe me”._

_Seb laughed too, he knew that admission meant he’d won, and that Sherlock would just let it happen again, chasing the pill around Seb’s mouth, playing the game as he always did, until he caught it in the curl of his tongue, swallowed and pushed Seb away._

_“You can fuck off now, you got what you wanted”._

_“Not even fucking close”._

_The rest was a blur as the speed kicked in, trapped with his wrists pinned and Seb’s fat ugly face moving in towards him. He’d kneed him in the balls, Seb had slapped him hard, his head had smacked back into the window and he hadn’t even felt it, and then Greg had stormed over out of nowhere tossed Seb to the floor like the piece of rubbish he was. He was furious, storming and shouting at Sherlock for being such an idiot and it had been glorious, his heart pounding, the blood rushing fast through his ears, feeling alert, alive impossibly infinite, keeping it all inside and just staring._

_And then Seb ruined it, told Greg that they slept together. As if. Shared a bed sometimes yes, on a strictly hands-off basis. The occasional snog was acceptable, enough for a steady supply, but Seb knew if he touched him, tried anything further Sherlock would put an end to their little agreement. It had worked until now, until the need became greater than his resistance to the means and it had all become rather more….complicated._

_***_

The cabin was empty.

Good, that meant no awkward questions about his lack of shoes and clothes.

Just to be safe, he went around to the back and using the window ledge to stand on, hoisted himself up onto the gently sloping roof. He could think here. Sherlock lay on his back, the heat from the sun had warmed the wood and it seeped into his skin, and he lit another cigarette, dragging deep, his eyes squeezed shut against the glare.

Sunglasses, Greg’s bedroom, great.

A bee buzzed around his head, tentative sweeps kept at bay by the drifting smoke, the rooftop now shaded and cooler as a bank of white cloud blocked out the afternoon sun.

Feet trudged up to the front of the cabin, one pair, masculine gait, athletic, young, possibly carrying something.

Shit.

Sherlock shifted, rolling onto his side and creeping to the edge to hear. The feet jogged quickly up the three wooden steps and placed something down on the deck outside the front door, but didn’t retreat, the sound of rubber soles twisting and turning, the owner looking around for something or someone, him.

“Sherlock?”

Greg.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Stupid question, to bring his stuff back most likely.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I’m guessing you’re around here somewhere so…fuck…listen, we’re heading down the coast tonight after hours if you fancy coming along…you know, bonfire on the beach, sand in your crack that sort of thing… just saying…if you’re not here…ah fuck this is stupid, look your clothes are on the porch, if you want the fucking Ray Bans back you’ll have to fight me for them”.

The footsteps retreated as Greg began to walk away.

“Greg… hang on”.

Sherlock sat up and scrambled down the sloping roof to the edge, transferring the cigarette from his hand to his lips as he twisted his body to drop back down to the ground again. He landed knees bent, bare feet thumping on the wooden surface more heel than toe, so inelegant.

Greg already sat on the bottom step, waiting, in a clean red polo top that set off his golden tan. His hair still bore the trace of Sherlock’s fingertips, chaotic and dishevelled through the right hand side.

Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

Maybe he had and didn’t care.

Greg smiled, “Saw the smoke signal, just thought I’d give you a chance to come down…so…mind explaining what this is all about?” He waved the scrap of paper .

Sherlock sighed. He picked up his t-shirt pulled it back over his head and sat down. It seemed more appropriate somehow, as if sitting there half-naked were some half-arsed invitation to continue what they’d been doing earlier. Not that Sherlock would object . He had gone there hoping for exactly that. But things needed to be said.

He opened his mouth to speak, to explain.

“Ssh, I can get this”, Greg pressed a warm, firm finger to his lips to hush him. “I want to do this for a living remember, interrogating criminals and shit…not that you are…never mind”, he paused for a second, thinking, “We’ve hardly said two words to each other, we skated, touched a bit, which was nice by the way, you said you weren’t straight and you’re clearly not, so no lie there…When I asked if that bloke was your boyfriend you said ‘hardly’, but I don’t believe for one second you would go there and if you think I believed what he said about you, well, let’s just say I’ve met a few blokes like him and he said it to make me jealous cause clearly I’m better looking than him, so that leaves two things, the ‘I’m not a virgin, I’ve done it loads of times’ line, and the ‘not trying to seduce you’ shit from before….you see”, he finished triumphant, “Here’s the thing, you’re not quite as clever as you think you are…and I don’t really care what you lied about, you either like me or you don’t”.

Amazing. Fantastic. Wonderful.

But Sherlock kept a neutral expression and said, “You have a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

“Well someone has to”, Greg said smugly, “so how did I do?”

“You being so very clever I thought you’d already know”.

“Nope”, said Greg with a grin, “I want to hear it from you”.

Sherlock flicked the ash from his cigarette, almost burned to the filter. He sucked down the rest and threw the butt into bucket by the door. “Seb’s a dick. If I sleep in his bed I get free speed, he’s not allowed to touch me most of the time”, he hesitated, knowing what came next was weird by anyone’s standard, “but when I’m high or bored I sometimes…forget”.

“Ah, the intoxicated slash pity fuck”, said Greg, nodding in understanding, “…s’okay, we’ve all been there”.

“No”, Sherlock interrupted, “I mean I’ve done stuff…with him…but not that…” he squirmed, red-faced and embarrassed. Bearing your feelings like this was not a thing he was used to. But Greg made him want to be open, honest, second-hand goodness polishing up the bad in him.

“So why say you had?” Greg frowned, confused, “I made it pretty clear I was interested before that”.

Sherlock shrugged, the actual reason, if it even existed lost on him now. “I don’t know, a test maybe…did you just want a shag or did you like me for me, that sort of thing “. He knew it didn’t make sense, emotions were never his strong point, messy, annoying and unpredictable things.

“So why’d you storm off?”

“Last night?” Sherlock asked and Greg nodded, “I suppose because rejection still hurts…even if that’s what I’d hoped”.

Greg placed a hand on top of his own where they lay folded in his lap. Sherlock turned his palm and slid their fingers together pale skin against tan, smooth skin and dark hair in contrast.

Anyone else he would have snatched his hand away, the sweat from a palm, feeling trapped and confined, abhorrent.

He didn’t mind this time, liked it even.

“So before…what was that about?”

“I had to be sure, I’ve been watching you all day, your reactions when I’m close, trying to figure you out…conclusion, despite my age, and now aware of my lack of experience…you’re not averse”.

Greg laughed, squeezed a little harder and leaned over to butt him playfully in the shoulder. “Oh, believe me…you definitely know what you’re doing….fuck, that was ….yeah…not exactly the work of a beginner”.

“It was…good?”

“Yes Sherlock it was… _you_ were good”.

~*~

The air had yet to cool. They drove with the windows wound down, moving along the deserted country roads that dipped and wound their way down to the coast. The inside of the car still stifling from a whole day parked in the heat of the blazing sun. Hair whipped back from Sherlock’s face, the cracked leather seat stuck to his calves as he sat with his legs curled, Greg with one hand on the steering wheel, while the other stroked absently up and down Sherlock’s thigh. It would have been almost perfect if they’d been alone.

“Two hands on the wheel Greg”, Sally Donovan snapped from behind. Pissed off that Sherlock got to ride in the front, while she’d been relegated to back seat driver, forced to sit beside Anderson ( not speaking, had a fight, how tedious).

Greg ignored her, gave his leg a squeeze and flashed him an easy smile, only placing his hand back on the wheel from necessity when the car slowed at a junction. He turned to the left, heading through a gate propped open which led to the foot of the rolling dunes. The headlights picked out glowing eyes, scores of rabbits, literally caught in the headlights, small bodies scattered and disappeared to god knows where as they approached.

Greg trundled across a badly kept track, rolling over pot- holes in teeth chattering jerks. He twisted right and pulled up on the grass, last in a line of ten or more others, the faint sound of music drifting over the dense green tufts of marram grass, a prickly barrier to the waves that crashed beyond.

He cut the engine and Sherlock leaned out. You could smell it from here, ozone and salt, the vegetable scent of damp, rotting seaweed and wood-smoke from a bonfire, sparks of red rising on the updraft. There were no lights here to obscure the stars, the sky a shimmering expanse like glitter sprinkled madly, turning his head to gaze into the blackness. It almost made you dizzy, to stare like that, as if you could fall into the sky, feet ripped from the earth, the world reversed. It scared him, the infinite. Humans were such very small things. He blinked and looked away, back to Greg, safe and grounding, pushing at doors and stepping out into the night.

They walked on, Greg with an arm thrown around his shoulders unashamedly. He’d always been a dirty little secret before, never open, never honest and wanted. It felt good. Green fronds pricked at his legs like a thousand tiny paper cuts. He should’ve worn his jeans, protected his skin, but Greg liked the way the shorts hung low on his hips, the jut of pelvic bone, resting on the swell of his arse. Plus they were easier to take off than tight jeans. And that seemed rather important.

His shoes filled with sand as they progressed. His calves burned too, like wading through treacle so they stopped for a second, toed them off and continued, the fine grains rubbing between his toes, cold and faintly damp even this far from the shoreline. Sally and Anderson walked on ahead, a cool distance between them. On the brink of break-up? (probably not), he would grovel, make her promises, like ending it for good with his high school girlfriend, she would relent, take him back, despite the fact she could do so much better. (Low self-esteem behind a prickly exterior? Ironic and achingly familiar).

The track through the dunes ended at the summit of a steep sloping sand-bank, even in the dark you could see the stretch of white sand curve away into the distance on the left, a bright pinpoint of light at the furthest reach, from a lighthouse, six miles along to the east. The breeze ruffled lightly through his hair and he shivered. The bonfire below looked warm and inviting as they stood looking down from the sandy precipice.

“Do you trust me?” Greg said. He jolted a little, lost. Greg’s arm slipped from his shoulder and gently took hold of his hand. He tightened the grip, locked their fingers and grinned.

Did he trust him? Yes, Sherlock thought so. Greg inspired trust in others, loyal and steadfast, personable and popular in a way Sherlock had only ever dreamed of. (And would he want that, to be popular? Perhaps not – such things were exhausting. This residual popularity was more than enough).

He nodded. His stomach lurched, he knew what was next. And then they were flying, leaping out into darkness, pitched down the shifting bank, sand slipping and sliding under him as he fought to dig in with his heels. So fast, too fast, the momentum hurled them forward, Greg let go and rolled, a safe commando style tumble while Sherlock barrelled on, his arms flailing desperately to slow himself down. Until he crashed, sprawled out, the rug of the world pulled out from under him.

“You okay?” Greg sniggered.

“It would appear so, no thanks to you…how old are you really?”

He struggled to his knees and stood up and groped around for his Vans, nestled in a dried-out heap of seaweed. ( _Fucus vesiculosus;_ bladderwrack).

Greg laughed and stood over him, held out a hand to help him up, brushing at the sand now clinging to his t-shirt, moving up into his hair, ruffling the curls to shake out the grains. “It’s good to act like a tit sometimes, keep the blood pumping, to remind yourself you’re still alive”.

“Yes, I suppose, it is”, Sherlock smiled. He knew that feeling well, hunted it, chased it down, (the blood pumping, not the tit part, although arguably taking drugs was far from the appropriate option).

They walked over to the bonfire, still brushing off sand (useless, there would always be more, his immediate future filled with the stuff) and plopped down cross-legged on a pile of old blankets, weighted down at the edges with shoes and bags. Greg crawled over to a large brown crate and picked out two beers, cans not bottles thank god and popped open the tabs. He handed one over and Sherlock sipped at the bitter foam, the first mouthful hideous the next one refreshing, almost welcome. He hadn’t noticed how thirsty he was.

“Hey, slow down on the strong stuff, I don’t want to have to carry you back over those fucking dunes, I have plans…” Greg trailed off suggestively, just as Sherlock belched, bubbles stinging his nostrils. He fought the urge to sneeze as Greg dissolved in a fit of laughter.

“Would any of those plans involve a nice cleansing shower?”

“How about a salt-water bath?”

What?

Surely that couldn’t mean what Sherlock thought it did?

He looked around. Couples were drinking, laughing, talking. A boy in a beanie hat strummed a guitar, someone else threw some seaweed on the fire. The flames turned yellow, then orange again, bursting and crackling, and Sherlock could feel the heat of it against his cheek. But people were peeling off in two and three’s too and strolling down to the shore-line, pausing at the edge to divest themselves of shoes and clothes. Some just paddled in the shallows, squealing as the icy water lapped against their toes, but some were braver, venturing out to where the waves broke foamy and white on their way into the shore, jumping in the swell, some clothed with t-shirts clinging wetly to their skin and some undeniably naked.

“What do you think? Want to give it a go?” Greg followed his gaze. His arms were wrapped around his knees with his chin on top, eyes peeping up alight with mischief.

“Alright, let’s do it”, Sherlock said, much braver than he felt at the thought of being naked in front of strangers.

“Don’t worry, it’s dark, no-one’s going to see your cock”, Greg saw through it, read his thoughts, “and I doubt if they would care…look, you can keep your pants on, I don’t mind, it’s you that’ll be driving home with a wet backside”.

“No…it’s fine”. He stood up, decision made, and Greg leapt up eagerly to join him.

“Where are you two going? Don’t you dare piss off and leave me”, said Sally, uncharacteristically nervous without the usual buffer of the odious forensics student.

“Skinny dip”, Greg called, “You up for it?...Not even for a one- time only opportunity to see the famous Lestrade crown jewels?”

“Not even tempted….Fuck off”.

Apparently the social stigma of sitting by oneself was preferable to stripping off to immerse in the icy depths.

“Suit yourself….come on Sherlock…last one in’s a knob”.

He took off, racing over the sand, dodging seaweed and rocks and leaping over dips and hollows while Sherlock raced to keep up laughing like a pair of five year olds. He skittered to a halt at the water’s edge at the highest line of the incoming tide. Greg had already stripped down to his boxers still panting from exertion as he waited for Sherlock to join him.

He made a show of peeling his shorts off slowly, folding them neatly, placed on the sand with care. The t-shirt next, the night air cool on bare skin. Just his pants left now, he hooked his thumbs in the waistband and slowly drew them down.

Shit, he’d done it, stark naked on the beach at night.

Greg sucked in a breath, “Fucking Christ”. Sherlock swallowed, tried to stay calm as Greg’s eyes roved over every inch of his body, long slender limbs, nipples hard and pebbled, firm flat stomach, down further to where his penis was rapidly swelling with blood and heat. His heart pounded loud in his ears, louder than the waves around him. He was powerless to move but prayed no-one could see. “Have you any idea….?” Greg stepped closer, “Just look at you….incredible…you’re so fucking gorgeous”.

His heart swelled with pride.

“Now you”, the voice didn’t sound like his, strangely hoarse, pitched lower from the involuntary flood of arousal. And what he said sounded more plea than request, a desperate need to see and to not be alone in this, exposed. He held his breath as Greg kicked off his boxers, carelessly discarding them in a heap with the rest of his clothes, and fuck, he looked amazing, strong and muscled, a smattering of thick dark hair on arms, legs and chest. He hardly dared look at the rest, it might just have proved too much.

Someone wolf-whistled from further down the beach and he blushed. Ridiculous response, obvious that it was for Greg, of course it wasn’t for him, glowing luminous white in the moonlight.

“Well we can’t just stand here and stare at each other’s cocks”, Greg laughed at his hesitation.

They stepped toward the water, wincing and gasping at the first lap of waves against their ankles, slowly becoming accustomed before venturing further in.

“How far?” he asked uncertain, erection already wilted from the cold.

“A bit further…it’s like a swimming pool…feels freezing until you get your shoulders under”.

Sherlock seriously doubted that. But maybe Greg had a point. The tentative creeping would serve no purpose, best to get it over with like ripping off a plaster. He waded out faster, dragging his feet along carefully to avoid any sudden drops, standing in the swell, waist deep and waiting for Greg to follow. He gasped as warm strong hands caught him around the waist from behind. The icy water raised goose-flesh over naked tingling skin, bobbing together in the swell as each wave rolled past.

“God I want you, say I can”.

Lips against his neck. He tilted his head to the side. Greg suckled gently at first, then harder more insistent, blood rising to burst beneath the surface. Sherlock didn’t care, the bright point of heat melting him, making him pliant, thankful for those arms that held him. He would fall without them. Sucked under, pulled away on the current. This felt like drowning too.

“Anything”, the words choked out, “Everything…please”.

Greg smiled into his skin and slid his hand down beyond his waist, one at his hip now, resting on the jutting bone, the other, the left one tracing down. Fingers curled through his coarse pubic hair, cupped the swell of his balls. He squeezed them gently, heavy and full and Sherlock craned his head back, searching for his mouth again. He found it, soft lips, warm tongue, biting down into the flesh as Greg curled his fingers around his cock pumping with firm sure strokes. It shouldn’t feel this good, so cold, under water, but burning. He shivered, gave a desperate “Mmm” and gasped, “Greg” as the next wave rolled in bigger, slapped against their bodies, threw salty spray in their faces. Sherlock stumbled back, off-balance, went under, the sea in his eyes, in his ears, up his nose. Strong hands pulled him up again spluttering and coughing in earnest.

“Jesus Sherlock sorry”. Greg wiped the water from his eyes, thumbing across his cheekbones, face cupped between his palms. Sherlock turned into him, clung to his shoulders and tried to remember how to breathe. In hindsight, a midnight skinny dip in the sea, was perhaps not the best place to attempt to lose his virginity.

“S’not your fault”, he said, his voice rough from saltwater. He smoothed his wet hair back from his face and grabbed at Greg’s shoulders when a wave threatened to topple him again. He steadied and stole a kiss, grabbed the back of Greg’s head and pulled him in, kissing hard and desperate to ground himself in the moment. Otherwise, this didn’t feel quite real. The cold had seeped into his bones now, turning his fingertips numb.

“Shall we go now”, he said, unable to stop his teeth from chattering and Greg nodded in agreement, holding him steady at the elbow as they waded back in towards the shore.

“How’s the water Lestrade?…you two are fucking mad”.

Sherlock heard the laughing voices as more ran down to the water, shedding clothes with abandon, their inhibitions loosened by copious amounts of beer. It was hard to pull his clothes on over chilled wet skin. The canvas shorts dragged and clung to his thighs, his pants he balled up and stuffed in a pocket to (maybe) put on later. Greg handed him his t-shirt, wet down the front where the tide had caught the edge. He dragged it over his head and it stuck to his chest, see-through.

“That was….an experience”.

“Yeah, you could say that”. Greg laughed and took his hand again. Sand stuck to his legs and feet as they walked back to the relative calm of the fire and sat down. He brushed at the sand with his hands, tutting with annoyance as it coated them instead.

“Do you want to get out of here?” asked Greg, and Sherlock nodded back.

“Sally”, Greg called over to where she sat with a cute looking guy with a beard, nuzzled close to make Anderson jealous (he was livid, it was working), “Just popping back to the car for a bit…clothes wet, gonna dry off with Sherlock”.

She rolled her eyes, “Yeah right, fuck off”.

Greg reached over to pull Sherlock up, “Ready?”

Was he?

He took Greg’s hand.

“Yes”


	6. Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The huffs of Sherlock's heated breath were unnaturally loud in the small hot car, he clutched at Greg's shoulders and panted softly, rocking his hips forward in a very deliberate motion. Greg groaned helplessly. Fuck that hit the spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay ( a week is a long time for me!) Kids off school, family birthdays, I won't bore you with the details, so here, have a sex chapter by way of apology!  
> (Chapter title courtesy of the Arctic Monkeys)

 

“Those things will kill you”, Greg said, just for something to say to hide his anxiety.

They had nearly made it back to the make-shift car- park, shoes back on again, walking slowly side by side. It could be the fact it was a beautiful night, barely a breeze to ruffle the grass, the sounds from the bonfire still audible behind them. Or it could be anticipation of the nervous variety, that feeling of stomach clenching excitement like a kid on Christmas Eve.

Just seconds before Sherlock had dropped his hand, reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out an extremely crumpled pack of cigarettes. Greg was mildly relieved, disgusting habit notwithstanding because for one horrible, embarrassing second he’d thought it was his sweaty hands that were the problem. He rubbed them reflexively on the front of his jeans and wondered just what it was about the current situation, about Sherlock in particular that had him sweating so profusely.

His reaction was beyond ridiculous. Tonight wasn’t the night for a sudden attack of performance anxiety and it wasn’t as if he’d never fucked a guy (or girl) in his car before, but this was Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Mister perfectly untouchable, and now self-confessed virgin.

A virgin who was the embodiment of sin.

Sherlock flashed him a lop-sided grin and his stomach flipped in response. He watched as Sherlock slid a slim cigarette between his gorgeous lips and then held the battered pack out towards him, drawling in his low, rumbling sex-voice “Says the man with the twenty a day habit…come on, don’t make me be the only one with foul smoky breath in this scenario”. He shook the packet in encouragement, and with a huff of feigned annoyance Greg broke in the face of temptation, reached out and took one. “There”, Sherlock said , triumphant, “Now wasn’t that easy”.

Yeah, much too fucking easy, Greg thought, it’s like he’s cast a spell or something. Lestrade, you’re in major fucking trouble, instead he said, “And I’m supposed to be cutting down to ten. You’re a very bad influence Sherlock Holmes”.

“Oh god, I do hope so”.

Sherlock was smiling at the ground, his head bowed down, but he glanced up just then, head tilted sideways, windswept curls flopping down in front of his eyes. Greg was mesmerized, he stumbled a little on a tuft of coarse grass as they walked and Sherlock chuckled, and touched a cool hand to his arm to signal him to stop.

“Here, best do this at a standstill. You seem to be a little distracted”.

Distracted? Yeah, that was one word for it.

Sherlock fished in his pocket and drew out a thick grey wad of cotton, his balled up pants he had obviously failed to put back on after their impromptu night-time dip in the sea. Greg swallowed, thickly, noticing the way Sherlock’s shorts hung low on his hips, the smooth, tight plane of his stomach, a thin canvas barrier and nothing more between it and the silky velvet heat of his cock. Christ, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on it.

Sherlock rummaged some more, smirking just a little as if he’d read Greg’s mind. He let his hand linger, finally producing a small silver lighter and flicking his thumb to produce a flickering yellow flame and Greg stepped in closer, curled his hand around it, and sucked in a breath. The white paper end burned red and he squinted against the silvery stream of smoke. Sherlock shifted back a step, something like apprehension on his face. But in a moment it had gone.

That was surprising, he seemed so outwardly confident and it brought it home to Greg in a stark moment of clarity just what was at stake here. He would be exploring virgin territory, literally, no matter the outwardly cocky exterior, with a kid whose previous sexual experience had been gained at the hands of an arsehole who used it as a bargaining tool for the ongoing supply of amphetamines.

If he didn’t handle this whole thing right, Greg would be no better.

Maybe with what he had planned he had no right to claim the moral high ground. There was no way he’d let Sherlock go through with this without him being one hundred per cent sure.

Sherlock regarded him coolly, “What are you thinking about, I can hear the wheels turning from here, oh god, don’t say you’re having second thoughts, I’m not some delicate, wilting flower”.

“No, I didn’t think for a minute that you were”, Greg laughed, a little startled at his thoughts being read, although he shouldn’t really be surprised, Sherlock was too damn sharp for his own good sometimes. “It’s just…I’ll be honest with you Sherlock, because you can sniff out a lie like a fart in a lift…don’t you think we should get to know each other a little better first?”

They had reached the car, but instead of getting in, Sherlock leant against the side arms crossed and holding his right elbow, cigarette still dangling from his fingertips. He looked defensive, a little wary, in a way he hadn’t looked the night before, languid and exuding sexuality in this same position. At least he had until that bastard he was with had slapped him.

“Why? I don’t understand”, said Sherlock, his face creased in obvious confusion, “I like you, though I’m at a loss right this minute to understand why, and if you’re going to reject me again, why the hell did you do…that thing you did this afternoon?” he waved his right hand in the air, sending silver flakes of ash cascading through the air, as he gesticulated wildly. Greg frowned for a moment trying to puzzle what Sherlock could mean by a thing, and Sherlock huffed with annoyance beside him, and blurted out “For god’s sake, you were latched on like I was a lactating female…and now you just want to talk to me, I rather thing we’ve bypassed the awkward conversation stage don’t you think?”

He was going to fuck this up, he could see the shutters coming down, defences being raised as Sherlock began to retreat from him. But Greg had never been in this position before, where the object of his soon to be requited lust was so damn…special…amazing.

Shit, that was it, it wasn’t just about fun, about getting off with a willing sexy partner.

Greg _cared_.

He could feel the flush on his face, and thanked god that it was too dark for Sherlock to see, the little shit would get a kick out of that, if he knew how bad he had it after such a very short time. He stammered a little as he replied, “Shit…look Sherlock, I really think you’re something else mate, of course I do…I just don’t want to take advantage or for you to feel like it’s something you have to give…I like you…as simple as that”.

Sherlock looked mollified at least and Greg sighed in relief. “You should know Greg, I never do anything I don’t want to do so you needn’t flatter yourself”. But there was no real censure there. And at least they both knew how things stood.

Greg laughed, “Don’t worry I won’t”.

Sherlock shrugged and rolled his eyes and said, “It’s all rather boring, my life that is, and you know the important bits anyhow…you have my permission to forego the tedious getting to know you process, I’d much rather jump straight to the good bits if it’s all the same to you”. He smiled then, wide and genuine and took the final drag on his cigarette, dropped the butt on the grass and stubbed it out with his toe. He folded his arms again, pale eyes catching the moonlight as he stood there. He looked ethereal, otherworldly and for the first time in his life, Greg knew he had bagged someone completely out of his league and that that someone had no fucking idea.

Sherlock frowned, and a little crease appeared between his eyebrows, another gesture to be filed under ‘unbearably cute’. “Aren’t you worried the others will be back soon?”

“Why should I be worried?” Greg answered honestly, because he wasn’t.

“Oh I don’t know”, said Sherlock, “Something about those _‘plans’_ you had for me, the reason why we’re standing here now and not back there with the others, sitting on a sandy blanket and drinking warm beer around a bonfire”.

“Ah right, those plans”, said Greg moving closer, more relaxed now he had the green light to go ahead, “You see if we were there instead of here, then I wouldn’t feel quite so comfortable about doing this…”

He stepped forward, crowded into Sherlock’s space and with a hand braced on the car at each side of that long, lean body he leant forward and brushed his lips across in a gentle feather-like kiss. Sherlock shivered and his breath caught in his throat, he fisted his hands in the front of Greg’s t-shirt and parted his legs to drag him further in. Greg went in for the kiss again and Sherlock moved out of range, teasingly. He tilted his head to the side, breath tickling against Greg’s ear and whispered, “But a wank in the sea in full view of the beach …you found that quite acceptable?”

Greg swallowed thickly, resisting the urge to just pin him, and go for it out here, instead he pressed a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head and stroked his fingers rhythmically through tousled, inky curls, “Okay, maybe not my best idea…although you do look fucking hot in a wet t-shirt”.

Sherlock hummed in appreciation and pressed small closed-mouth kisses down the side of Greg’s cheek, a deceptively innocent gesture, tempered by the touch of long deft fingers delving into the pocket of his jeans. Greg was half-hard already, just standing this close and the brush of long fingers on the side of his cock despite the barrier of two layers of material made him gasp and jerk forward with embarrassing eagerness. He heard Sherlock snigger and draw his hand away. He heard a familiar jingling and then the lock on the car popped as Sherlock pressed the button on Greg’s car keys.

“Is that a hint”, Greg said, amused. The thought was tremendously appealing at this moment. Sherlock with his arms wrapped around Greg’s waist, smiling at him, a peculiar and alluring mix of coy and downright smugness on his face. The logistics could be awkward though. Front seat or back seat? Greg considered the expanse of Sherlock’s lanky body, long arms, even longer legs and his own equally tall but stockier frame, and tried to imagine how the hell they could pull this off without incurring some sort of serious injury. Two full grown males (almost full grown in Sherlock’s case) in a small blue hatch-back; It would definitely be a challenge.

Greg reached behind Sherlock’s back and pulled on the driver’s side door handle, “Shall we?”

~*~

“Have you done this before?” Greg said amused. Sherlock gave him a withering look, wriggling to settle himself more comfortably on Greg’s lap. He stifled a groan as Sherlock moved against him, his own damn fault, and punishment. Instead of going round to the other side of the car, Sherlock had waited until Greg had slid into his seat and followed behind, straddling his lap and pulling the door shut with a clang.

He nuzzled his head in the crook of Greg’s neck. “No”, he murmured, “But I know that you have”.

His back was pressed uncomfortably between Greg and the steering wheel, and so he shifted again, reached a hand down the side of the seat and fumbled for the small adjustment lever. He flipped it with a snap and the seat slid back as far as it would go.

That assessment was fair Greg thought, he’d done this more times than he cared to remember although he found it rather hard to work out why he’d bothered with anyone other than Sherlock up to this moment. Sherlock had that power it seemed to make everything and everyone that had come before him simply pale into insignificance.

He slid his hands under the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt and slowly ran his palms up and down Sherlock’s smooth, warm skin. It felt as soft as silk beneath his fingertips, tracing the dips and hollows of barely concealed ribs and vertebrae. The slender form was deceptive though, he knew. Sherlock was quick, and strong and agile, a tightly coiled bundle of pure kinetic energy, whom Greg had no doubt could put him on his back if he wanted to, easily. It was a marvel to have him so calm and still, letting himself be petted and stroked in this way. And so he savoured it, until Sherlock wriggled restlessly against him eager for more. He lifted his head and began to nip along Greg’s jaw, making soft little noises in the back of his throat and tugged on Greg’s ear- lobe with his teeth. Greg’s hands stopped stroking and squeezed instead, to show he got the message and he gasped at the feeling of the warm, wet tip of a tongue, as Sherlock traced it teasingly around the shell of his ear. The huffs of Sherlock’s heated breath were unnaturally loud in the small hot car, he clutched at Greg’s shoulders and panted softly, rocking his hips forward in a very deliberate motion.

Greg groaned helplessly.

Fuck, that hit the spot.

“Good?” murmured Sherlock, and did it again. And then again a little firmer, pressing down and rolling forward. At this point the chances of producing a coherent answer were nil and taking it slow no longer an option.

“Very good…too good…ah fuck”, Greg gasped, and remembering that Sherlock wasn’t wearing any pants, he slowly slid his hands back down and dipped his fingers below the waistband of his shorts. They gaped at the back where Sherlock leant forward, and his hands moved down inside them easily. Greg sank his fingers into the lush, plump flesh of Sherlock’s arse, and squeezed rhythmically. Christ it was perfect, firm beneath his fingertips. He went lower, cupped his palms right under where arse met thigh and pulled, hard, crushing them together in time with Sherlock’s increasingly frantic rutting.

Oh god, neither of them would last very long like this. The car windows were already streaked with steam and it would be blatantly obvious to anyone that passed what they were doing in here. Of course they knew that already, and wasn’t that part of the fun, the frisson, being bad, being a down right filthy bastard?

The car reeked of salt water, sweat and sex and no-one was even naked yet.

As if he heard his thoughts again, Sherlock slowed his movements enough to wriggle his arms from the confines of his t-shirt, he struggled for a moment caught between wanting to stay attached to Greg’s neck and having to pull the damn thing off over his head. Practicality won in the end and he broke off, banging his elbow on the window as he yanked it over his head and pulled it off.

Greg growled at the sight of so much exposed skin and nipples, those damn fucking nipples, small and round and perfect. He bobbed forward, humming in approval at the shocked little gasp Sherlock made as he worried the little nub of flesh between his teeth.

“Greg…” He hummed against Sherlock’s chest. “Greg”, more insistent this time, he pulled off and looked up. “The fucking handbrake is digging in my shin, can we move?”

Sherlock was wrecked, cheeks flushed pink, a sheen of sweat standing out on his skin, he was breathing so hard the words came out hoarse and desperate and he was shaking, Greg could feel the tiny tremors running through his body. Fear, nerves, arousal? Probably all three.

“Hey, are you okay?”, he asked, leaving the warm confines of the back of Sherlock’s baggy shorts and stroking a fingertip across his sweaty face. Sherlock nodded and Greg sighed realising he had a point. Time to take this to the back seat. “Do you want to?” he said, nudging his head towards the back of the car.

“Let’s forget you asked such a fucking stupid question” Sherlock countered, climbing off his knee and crawling through the gap between the two front seats. He flopped down on his back, knees up, stretched out along the back seat. “Well?” he said, failing to hide his obvious impatience.

Greg was poised, a hand on each seat back, just staring. Before he could move, Sherlock lifted his arse and wriggled out of his shorts, shucking them down, right leg out first and kicked them off his left ankle. They landed unceremoniously in a heap in the footwell. Jesus Christ, no shame then, Sherlock’s body was gorgeous, finely muscled arms and legs, washboard flat stomach and a smattering of dark hair on his alabaster skin. And of course you couldn’t miss the prominent and quite impressive erection standing out from his body.

“Fuck” was all he could manage at this point.

“If that’s a statement of intent, then the answer is yes”. Sherlock stretched his arms above his head provocatively. For someone with limited experience he sure knew how to be an evil little tease. Greg wondered if this was a sign that Sherlock trusted him or whether he was like this with other…people. From what he had indicated Sherlock had tried to set boundaries with Seb, but who knew how far things had gone when he’d forgotten himself, as he’d put it, while on speed. All this crossed his mind in an instant while he pulled off his own t-shirt and unzipped his jeans, pushing them down his thighs as he sat back down in the front for a second. He hesitated for a beat, his hands on the waist of his boxers, then thought fuck it, If Sherlock had done it he would too.

“Come on Greg”, Sherlock wiggled, impatient, and he reached for the glove box and popped the catch, rummaging around till his hand closed around a bottle of lubricant, warm to the touch from the heat inside the car. There were condoms here somewhere too, a battered box with two or three left inside that he’d bought just before he came down for the start of the summer season. He grabbed them, and scrambled between the seats into the back, and winced when he smacked his head off the roof of the car.

“Maybe we should have put a towel down”, he said in a moment of realisation, “This stuff tends to go everywhere”. He waved the lube towards Sherlock and glanced around for some alternative for him to lie down on. They’d never hear the end of it if Anderson or Sally, god forbid, were forced to sit in a wet patch of lube and quite possibly ejaculate on the drive back to camp. You never quite knew how these things would go in advance and a mess was always possible. He plucked his t-shirt from the front seat and said, “Here, lift up a sec”, and spread it, as smoothly as possible on the seat under Sherlock’s arse.

“That really isn’t sexy you know”.

“Neither is scraping dried spunk off the seats…or having Sally on your case...so put up or shut up mate”.

Sherlock huffed, only pretending to be annoyed and dutifully dropped one leg off the seat onto the floor. Greg got the message and climbed over it onto the seat, and settled on his knees between Sherlock’s spread thighs. It was cramped and awkward, with a risk that one or both of them would roll off at some point, but what the hell, that was half the fun of fucking in a car, wasn’t it?

“Is this okay…I mean, would it be better…the other way”, Sherlock said hesitantly, the uncertainty back in his voice as Greg continued to sit there and do absolutely fucking nothing. Truthfully, he was awestruck, just staring at the boy spread out below him, legs open, flushed and heavy-lidded, waiting for Greg to make the first move and touch him, trusting him completely.

He had to make this good. His first time with a man had been crap. It had hurt like hell because they’d barely even bothered with prep in their eagerness to just dick someone. Of course he’s been the lucky recipient that time, lost his erection, drawn blood from biting on his own fucking hand, and he still bore the scars, the faded pink of carpet burns from the cheap office carpet, and office that had belonged to his high school P.E teacher. Mr Riley, Peter, everyone thought he was shagging Miss Warren when it had really been Greg all along. He was seventeen, the football captain and not a virgin, that had gone two years earlier to Lucy Coulson in her best mates bedroom after the school Christmas disco. He still did both with a preference for men. He loved the heady mix of passion and aggression, the harder, faster, roughness of it, the way you didn’t have to be so careful.

Except this time he did, Sherlock’s first time, and he was giving it up to Greg.

“No, stay like that”, he said finally, “We’ll figure it out, it’s fine”.

He eased himself down gently on top of Sherlock’s body, his skin slightly chilled and they shivered together finding warm mouths and kissing languidly. He fisted his hands in Sherlock’s hair, fingers catching in the tangled curls, crisp from dried salt-water after his impromptu fall in the sea. Sherlock shifted restlessly beneath him, his cock hot and damp, pressing against Greg’s own, his long arms were wrapped around Greg’s back and they moved further down to grab his arse and push him down, arching his hips up to meet him, moaning softly into his mouth. “Can we …please?”

Greg pulled back, “You sure?”

“Yes, just…hurry”, Sherlock whined a note of panic in his voice, which made Greg wonder just how close he was already just from kissing and a little bit of rubbing. The next bit might slow things down though, nothing like that first finger up the arse to take the edge off things your first time. Or maybe he would love it and get off before Greg got in. He sat back on his knees again, reached down onto the floor and picked up the bottle of lube.

“You need to tell me if you want to stop, if it hurts…you’re supposed to enjoy this, so no lying if you don’t like it, we can always try again another time”. Sherlock nodded, biting his lip, watching intent while Greg flipped the cap on the bottle and squirted some lube into his hand. He coated the fingers of his right, until it was slicked and oozing fat globules onto the t-shirt below, some dripped down Sherlock’s raised thigh too, and he traced it’s progress with his eyes, watching it slide down into his thick dark pubic hair. He followed it with kisses, pressed along his inner thigh and gently coaxed him to raise his leg, placing his left hand under the bend of his knee and draping it over his shoulder. With his hips raised a little more and his legs spread out Greg ran an experimental finger down the cleft of Sherlock arse.

“Fuck”Sherlock gasped.

“Is that a good fuck, or bad?”

“Good, weird but good…do it again”.

He went slower this time, dragging down and hovering when the pad of his finger touched the puckered skin of Sherlock’s hole, and he circled lightly, skimming over the surface, feeling Sherlock tense up. He kept up the pressure, light movements became firmer and more purposeful in tandem with shuddering little breaths. Slowly, he relaxed, his stomach stopped trembling with tension, hips dropped, legs floppy, body pliant, but Greg hung on a little longer, damping down his own need and frustration until Sherlock had decided he liked it and wanted more, pushing back against the gentle pressure from his finger.

The tip slipped in and Sherlock sucked in a breath and went rigid. “Greg”, he said, soft and quavering, “I…oh god…”

Greg reached forward and drew circles on his abdomen, “Just relax love…you’re doing so well”.

Sherlock sighed and nodded, eyes pressed shut and lost to the new sensations overwhelming his body. It probably felt weird, he would be caught between pleasure and pain, his body confused and trying to adjust to something inserted where it never normally would be. Really, he was doing great.

When Greg thought Sherlock was ready for it he started to move again, tiny movements in and out in the tight and velvet heat of his insides, so soft, much softer than you would think. He waited, more patient than he ever thought he could be, noticed when Sherlock went pliant again, moving against the finger inside him with short little pants, felt his breath catch when he saw a bead of pre-come pool at the tip of Sherlock’s dick and slowly trickle down the length of him. It made Greg’s own cock throb in sympathy.

It was time to work up to another, he pulled out carefully and Sherlock gave a whine which made him smile, pressing back again with two. Sherlock held his breath again, from anticipation more than discomfort this time pushing back on him straight this time with an eagerness and growing desperation, his hand snaking down to palm himself as Greg worked him open. From the look on his face a finger fuck might be all it would take. Greg stopped, three fingers inside him and leant forward to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. His eyes shot open and he stared at Greg as if he couldn’t believe he was there, dazed and confused.

“Why did you stop?” , he whispered.

Greg sighed, “I just had to watch…”You just looked so gorgeous, getting off on my hand like that”.

“I don’t want your hand”, said Sherlock. He let go of his cock and it slapped against his stomach, “I was imagining it was you, fucking me”.

“It was”, Greg said, and he smiled as Sherlock huffed.

“You know that’s not what I mean…don’t be such a bloody tease”.

“Me?” Greg laughed, “What about you _rollerboy_ , with the tight jeans and all the moves rubbing up against me at that damn disco….”

Sherlock slipped his leg from Greg’s shoulder’s and hooked it around his waist instead, lifted the other and wrapped it round too, locking them together at the ankles. He held Greg’s gaze, sure and steady. “Fuck me”.

It was a scramble for the condoms then, loosening Sherlock’s limbs long enough to find the box, get one out and rip it open, roll it down carefully despite his desperation and slick up the length with more lube. The more the better, Sherlock would thank him later, even if now he was whining about it dripping down his thigh.

“Bare down if you need to, it opens things up a bit more, makes it a little easier”. Sherlock nodded in understanding, hooked his legs around again and buried his face in Greg’s shoulder to pre-emptively hide any pained expression. “Are you good?” Greg stuttered, and felt rather than heard an answer, curls brushing in a nod of assent against his neck.

He pressed against the loosened entrance slowly, soothed round the rim with his fingers at first before gently pushing with the head of his throbbing cock. This wouldn’t last long, they were both beyond ready, but that didn’t matter as much as the fact that they were here, actually doing this together, and that it was Sherlock of all people his crazy untouchable fantasy. This would make the top ten all time shags list even if it only lasted a minute. He pushed in again, firmer and more insistent this time and gave a soft grunt as he felt Sherlock’s body give, and the head of his cock slide in. Sherlock’s arms tightened around his neck and a soft little “Ah” escaped his lips.

Greg paused again, and Sherlock wriggled impatiently. “Keep going?”, Greg questioned his voice wrecked with the effort of holding back and not just slamming like he was used to. Sherlock answered with a squeeze of his thighs which lifted his hips from the seat and soft little nips and licks at the side of Greg’s neck sending spikes of pleasure all the way down his spine. He could feel Sherlock’s cock still hard against his stomach where their bodies were pressed together and took that as a positive sign although he was trembling with the effort. Sherlock squeezed his shoulders and bore down again, Greg gasped and pushed and slid the rest of the way inside. They clung together, just panting and breathing, sucking in air and trying to still their shaking limbs.

Christ, it had never felt this good for as long as Greg could remember, the heat of it the tight grip of Sherlock’s body around him, the flutter and contraction of muscles where every tiny movement pushed him closer to the edge.

Thank god for latex, he would have come by now without it.

Slowly, carefully, he moved again, pulling out a little and pushing back again, a slight movement of the hips in and out. Sherlock just clung to him, went with the rhythm, letting Greg set the pace and do the work. He pumped a little faster and the car rocked and creaked with the motion anyone who passed would know someone was being fucked inside, Sally or Anderson could come back at any minute too, tired of the beach and the bonfire and looking for Greg to drive them home. Sherlock was meeting every thrust now. Broken little moans and sobs had replaced the tense little groans of discomfort. He loosened his death grip around Greg’s neck and threw his head back on the seat below, banging it off the side. He didn’t even notice, didn’t even slow down, one hand gripping the back of the seat and the other leaving welt in Greg’s arse as his nails dug in hard.

“Fuck”, Greg groaned, drinking in the sight of Sherlock losing control. Flushed skin, hair a tangled nest, sweat that ran in rivulets down his slight chest and his cock, leaking profusely now, slapping on his skin and twitching with each fuck.

He looked up to find Sherlock’s eyes locked on his own. “Touch me….please Greg…I want…oh I need you too…oh”.

It was all the answer he needed, curling his palm around Sherlock’s straining cock and working him in tandem. “Faster” Sherlock gasped, and Greg doubled his efforts, added a flick of the wrist on the upstroke, and thumbing across the sensitive wet head. He felt it as it happened the tension, Sherlock arching like a bow string beneath him, his cock impossibly harder and then spurting hotly over his closed fist and Sherlock’s chest, long white ribbons of come pulsing out in the way that only a teenager can. A bead of pearly liquid glistened on Sherlock’s right nipple and he bent his head and swiped it away with his tongue. The taste was indescribable, salt and musk and something vaguely chemical like chlorinated pool water, but it was luscious and decadent and so very Sherlock too, so he lapped up the rest with abandon, mindless of whether it was weird or not. Some people liked it, thought it hot that you would do that, eat their come. It would save on the post-sex clean up too.

Did Sherlock think him weird? He looked up, still pounding , more frantic as his own orgasm built, to see Sherlock staring intently at his mouth his brow creased in wonderment.

“Kiss me…. _kiss me now_ ”, Sherlock ordered, and he grasped a handful of Greg’s short hair and dragged his head forward. Sherlock’s tongue probed his mouth, swirling and licking inside, and Greg realised what he was doing, he was trying to taste himself.

So not weirded out then. Good, very good, better than good, fucking fantastic. Someone willing to be as filthy as he loved to be.

Sherlock bit down on his lip then, tugged the soft flesh between his teeth and Greg came with a muffled shout, the noise ripped from his throat as he slammed once, twice, balls slapping wetly, and then paused, right up his arse as far as he could go and rode it out, thighs shaking as he pulsed and shuddered and fought to catch a breath and calm down.

“Christ, that was intense…what the hell was that?” he stuttered finally, flopping down on top of Sherlock, wincing at the feeling of sweat slicked clammy skin.

Sherlock ran his ankles up Greg’s back in a languid motion, “I believe that’s what they call _a damn good shag_ …don’t you think?”

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” Greg said jokingly, “Because that was impressive and I’m a ten, so I should know”.

“A ten?” Sherlock laughed, “Maybe…. with a bit more practice, I could get you up to a nine point five, there’s _always_ room for improvement”.

Greg slid out with a hiss, thankful he still had the presence of mind to hold onto the base of the condom as he slipped free. He wrapped it in a tissue from a packet he found in the glove box and stuffed it in the condom box, the foil packets stashed safely in his jeans pocket.

They would be put to good use in the coming days, if he got his way, or if Sherlock got his way more like it. He could tell already the kid would be insatiable now he’d popped his cherry. Sally would go mad at him, he would get the sack if the bosses found out he was shagging a guest, but it would be worth it, every second, all the sneaking around and meeting in secret, stolen kisses and blow jobs in broom cupboards.

And he got to do all this with Sherlock.

Greg could hardly wait.


	7. No Good Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This. He could do this all night.Taste his breath and his sweat, touch his skin to feel it react against his fingertips, hear him gasp, the wet sounds of their lips and tongues as they moved, memorizing every dip and hollow of the soft, yielding flesh....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has so many feelings!! - The precious little bab! More plot next time. With smut. There's always room for smut.

 

 

“Better put these back on before we give Sally a heart attack”, Greg grinned, picking up Sherlock’s t-shirt from where it had wedged itself between the driver’s seat and the door and shaking off the detritus of pastry crumbs, crisps and fag ash and god knows what else that had collected down there over the years. “Sorry it’s a bit of a mess”.

“Not as bad as yours though, that thing is beyond redemption and it stinks”.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and poked at the balled up cotton rag with his foot, a casualty of the previous hour, donated to the cause, namely, cleaning up the mess of lube from Sherlock’s arse and the come on his chest.

Not that there had been much of the latter left after Greg had gone to work so efficiently with his tongue.

Sherlock shivered slightly and goose-bumps rose on his arms, remembering the feel of it, wet and warm tracing over his skin. Greg had taken his time, savoured it as if all that mattered was the taste of him the feel of him. He wanted to be closer, as close as he possibly could and Sherlock understood that too. Not wanting to let go just because the sex was over.

(Greg looking down on him, as if Sherlock was something precious, special. Greg telling him he was gorgeous, amazing, wonderful; like this wasn’t the most incredible moment of his life too).

“Aw it can’t be that bad” said Greg, catching it up in his hand and giving it a cautious sniff. “Well, on seconds thoughts”, he laughed, tossing it onto the floor again, “Topless it is. If you think you can restrain yourself”.

“Why? Because you’re so irresistible?”

“Exactly”.

Sherlock spluttered with laughter and shook his head. “Really, Greg Lestrade, who would have thought you would be so vain, although I’m flattered that you still feel the need to impress me”.

“Yeah, because I’m so hot you can’t get enough of me?”

“Hmm”, Sherlock hummed as Greg leaned across and tilted Sherlock’s chin up to meet his mouth. The scratch of day-old stubble rubbed against his cheek until he got the angle right, parting his lips eagerly moaning softly at the soft sweep of Greg’s tongue against his own. His right hand gripped the back of Greg’s neck and his fingers curled up, dragging through the hair at the nape of his neck, still damp with sweat and gritty with sand. He turned his body more fully to face him left hand pressed to Greg’s chest for balance. Warm hands skimmed his skin, ghosting down the sides of his body and Sherlock arched forward at little more, thumbing gently across Greg’s taught exposed nipples as he squeezed lightly at Sherlock’s waist.

This, he could do this all night. Taste his breath and his sweat, touch his skin to feel it react against his fingertips, hear him gasp, the wet sounds of their lips and tongues as they moved, memorising every dip and hollow of the soft yielding flesh; Greg pausing for a moment to let Sherlock explore his teeth with the tip, mapping out his mouth to remember every contour. Sherlock could feel his skin grow hot again, tingling in anticipation, even as his muscles protested and he squirmed against the leather seat, arse still sore and tender through the thin cotton of his shorts. They couldn’t, not again, however much he wanted it.

“Hey”, said Greg, pulling back and pressing their foreheads together. “You’re too damn good at that, what the fuck am I going to do with you?” he dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, smoothing and teasing them back into shape, turning his head a little at the murmur of voices from outside. “There”, he said, “Now you look a little less”, Greg paused and regarded him thoughtfully, he huffed with laughter and said, “Less fucked…nothing else I can say about it, really…just don’t bite Sherlock, you know how she is, play nice”.

“I never play, and you should know I'm far from nice”, Sherlock smiled. He didn’t care, not one bit, what Sally Donovan or anyone else for that matter, thought about him. He slouched down low in the passenger seat and lifted his feet up onto the dashboard, bending his legs at the knee, while Greg rummaged on the back seat for his belt, squeezing his body through the narrow gap between the seats.

“Remind me, if I ever think that sex in a car is a good idea, that I’m a fucking idiot please?”

“Of course I won’t, are you mad?” Sherlock said as the door was wrenched open from the outside and the cool, night air cut through the damp fug of sex and mingled breath inside the tiny car.

Sally made a noise in her throat, disgust and annoyance combined. “Oh god, you really fucking did didn’t you, ugh Christ I can smell it. I hate you both”, she added, stepping back a pace to let Greg climb out, and scowling anew at the sight of his bare chest. “Couldn’t you even be bothered to get dressed after…is it actually necessary to shove it people’s faces?”

“Hey, my car my rules”. Greg popped the lever to drop the front seat forward and Sally climbed into the back of the car, shuffling along to sit behind Sherlock. Anderson followed, sour-faced and silent. They’d been arguing again, quite vocally, Sherlock guessed and the outcome had not been a happy one. It took one glance at Sally to see why.

Sherlock smirked, “Although that is a little hypocritical I would have thought, from the woman with dried ejaculate in the corner of her mouth that doesn’t belong to Anderson”.

She sucked in a breath, hand darting to her lips and brushing guiltily at the corners with the back of her hand.

“Oh god, well that’s just great…thank you very much”, Anderson snapped throwing Sally a murderous glance as Greg stared at Sherlock in disbelief, snorting as he tried to hold in his laughter.

“Unsafe sex Sally….I thought you would know better, but I guess you just couldn’t help yourself hmm?” Sherlock said casually, childishly tracing an ejaculating cock in the condensation on the window.

“Greg…I swear to god, I am not putting up with that little shit every time we come out”.

“Then find another lift then….No?” he said, when greeted with stony silence, “Didn’t think so. And Sherlock, stop being a prick, you don’t have to work with her tomorrow”.

Sally huffed in annoyance and threw the crumpled foil wrapper she’d found under her arse when she sat down. It flicked past Sherlock’s ear and grazed his cheek before dropping down into his lap. Well he couldn’t exactly say he hadn’t deserved it.

She folded her arms across her chest defensively. “Can we just go now please, I’m starving”.

“Haven’t you already eaten?” snapped Anderson, with a surprisingly sharp comeback for him.

“Fuck off Phil”.

Greg turned the key in the ignition and the old car spluttered into life. He pressed his foot on the accelerator and the engine roared. “Have we quite finished fighting kiddies?”

Sherlock just shrugged and stared out of the window, holding in his laughter while Sally and Anderson ignored each other completely, the atmosphere charged with words unsaid. He really shouldn’t have risen to the bait, not if that meant Greg would be annoyed with him, not after tonight, what they’d just shared. Sherlock bit his lip and hoped his big mouth hadn’t fucked things up, watching as the car headlights lit up the grassy bank in front of them, rabbits scurrying for cover in the glare.

Greg sighed deeply and pulled away, and once they were on the road again, heading back to the campsite he reached out his left hand, the other firmly fixed on the wheel, and ran his hand slowly up Sherlock’s thigh, lingering at the top and tracing back down the seam.

Not angry then, Sherlock smiled.

~*~

“You really didn’t have to go so hard on her” said Greg.

“She’s annoying, and she ruined the moment”.

"I suppose she did, fair enough".

Greg climbed back into the car and closed the door with a clunk and they watched as the others retreated across the car park, heading for the staff cabins just beyond the tree-line that marked the border. Sally had her arms folded defensively across her body and Anderson walked a pace or two behind, his voice wheedling as he promised yet again to call off his engagement, and failing to sound sincere. But this was the way they worked Sherlock thought, one of them had chosen to use sex as revenge the other as a bargaining tool, back and forward with no resolution.

“Ah….Did you really think I’d finished with you yet?” Greg said archly, setting off a writhing swarm of butterflies in Sherlock’s stomach again as the car pulled away once more and edged up the track toward Sherlock’s cabin. Greg turned off the engine and cut the lights, and Sherlock heard the pop and click of the seat belt as it came undone and the swish as it slid back smoothly. He fidgeted nervous again, but bristling with anticipation. “Christ, I can’t get enough of you I could do this all damn night”, Greg growled, fisting a handful of Sherlock’s crumpled t-shirt and pulling him across the gap. He crushed their mouths together so hard it was painful and Sherlock tasted the copper tang of blood as his teeth cut into the soft plump flesh of his lip, tilting his head to the side and opening his mouth to let Greg’s tongue slide in.

It was addictive, this feeling, of wanting to climb inside his skin. And who needed oxygen anyway?

The fluttering in his belly grew more insistent, like he’d taken the crest of a hill on his skates too fast. He made a desperate little noise in the back of his throat and Greg smiled against his mouth, pulling him closer and flicking his tongue against Sherlock’s own. He felt the throaty rumble of a laugh in Greg’s chest, his hands sliding up Sherlock’s neck to gently cradle each side of his face. They pulled apart with a wet smack and Greg traced along Sherlock’s lip with his thumb. “You need to go”, Greg said in a low rough voice, “Before I commit more acts of public indecency within earshot of your parents”. He eyed the cabin where the faint glow of a lamp was still visible through the living room curtains. “Do they know?” he added, a crease appearing between his brows.

Sherlock shrugged and Greg dropped his hands from his face. “I think so”, he said, smoothing out the crease with a fingertip, “They knew about Seb and I never even told them, they worry though, that I’m not being careful, not doing things for the right reasons”.

“Sounds like they know you well”.

“But not this time”, Sherlock said in a rush. He needed Greg to understand how different this was. “This is….for the right reason”.

“Glad to hear it”, Greg grinned, and then he winced and reached down to adjust his cock in the front of his jeans, “Christ, you’ll be the death of me and this is from only a kiss”.

~*~

The engine roared and Sherlock was bathed in the bright white glare of the headlamps for a moment as he crunched swiftly across the gravel to the steps, opened the door with a small brass key and closed it with a click behind him. He stood for a minute, back to the warm oak panels thinking about every new ache and twinge in his limbs and the faint throb and sting between his legs and Greg Lestrade’s naked body, heavy and sweating on top of him while he moaned and writhed like a whore. Then he pushed off the door, and padded across the wooden floorboards, creaking softly beneath his rubber soles as he headed towards his room. He clicked off the lamp on the way.

“And where have you been young man”.

He jerked in surprise at the sound of his mother’s voice, thankful that she was unaware of the filthy images that had just flowed through his mind. She was standing in the doorway of the kitchen mug in hand. Warm milk to help her sleep, she was a habitual insomniac like him.

“Nowhere, just out….with friends”, he said in the sullen non-committal way of teenage rebels everywhere. But his mother just smiled. Friends, that was a new one.

“Well, I do hope you’re being careful Sherlock dear”, she said, crossing the room to kiss him goodnight. He squirmed away slightly as she reached out to touch his neck and scowled at the tut of disapproval she gave as she hovered her fingers over the dark purple marks that he’d let Greg suck onto his skin. “Really, Sherlock, did you have to?” she said, “Those things always look so unspeakably common. Just don’t let your father see”, she added and patted his cheek affectionately. “He’s very handsome by the way, that young fellow, Gregory isn't it?….”

“But?” said Sherlock raising his brow.

“But nothing dear”, she said, changing her mind on what she had planned to say. She sighed, “Just don’t get too involved my love, I really wouldn’t like to see you get hurt”.

He jerked away from her touch. “I’m not involved”, he snapped, but the words sounded hollow to his ears, “I know I won’t see him again after the summer….so why would I bother to get involved?”

“Oh Sherlock dear”, she said, smiling softly as her son stalked away and swept into his bedroom, out of sight, “I think perhaps you already are”.

~*~

Sherlock stood at the foot of his bed and stripped off his t-shirt still smelling faintly of Greg’s aftershave and sweat as he eased it over his head. He dropped his shorts too, stepped out and then tossed them away with his foot and then sliding beneath the cool cotton covers on his bed. They felt rough against his skin, too covered too hemmed and he tossed around, lay on his side, on his back, curled up into a ball, until he pushed the sheets back angrily and lay, fully awake staring up at the ceiling.

How had it felt? He had to remember. Sherlock slid a hand down his body, trailed in feather-light touches across damp fevered skin to cup the warm humidity of his cock which twitched at the gentle touch. He pressed down a little, enough to make him gasp and his cock to thicken and fill with blood. Sherlock curled his hand around carefully, adjusting the grip until it felt like Greg’s hand had, tight and narrow, squeezing his shaft like a vice. Too tight. He loosened his grip and stroked himself lazily too much friction, too dry, everything felt wrong now here on his own. He dragged the channel of his hand up his cock again experimentally and after a moment of thought, let go and brought his hand up to coat his palm with saliva. He tried again, the way made much slicker this time, pumping his hardening cock with his right hand and squeezing the nub of a nipple between thumb and forefinger with the other. Electric jolts of pleasure ripped through his body this time and he gritted his teeth to stifle the moan that rose in the back of his throat, desperate to erupt. But it wasn’t enough, not even close, and he knew it never would be again after tonight, he wanted Greg’s hand on his cock, Greg’s mouth to suck his nipples raw, Greg’s strong fingers sliding inside his body fucking and stretching him open. And then…..and then….

Sherlock stuttered to a halt, his eyes opening wide at the sound of a cough and the creak of bedsprings from the room next door. He flushed hot red in the darkness praying that the rhythmic creak of the mattress had gone unnoticed, as his hips had thrust up to fuck his own hand in a desperate attempt to capture that spark again, to remember.

Sherlock growled in frustration, irritated that Greg was so completely in his head. The way his skin had tasted, of the sea salt that had dried onto his skin as they splashed in the waves at midnight, the dark hair on his legs which had prickled at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs as Greg lay between his legs. The muscles in his back that had rippled and flexed, strong arms curled around Sherlock’s back to pull him in.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, frustration, pain, stomach clenching and libido crushing fear. He hadn’t imagined that Greg would be so patient, soothing him and coaxing him, gentle touches and wordless encouragement. He hadn’t thought it would be so tender, so careful. Yes it had been rough and exhilarating but only when he’d been ready, only when he’d asked Greg for more. It was distinctly annoying that he would have to wait a day or two before they’d be able to do it again, his arse still felt sore and going to the loo in the morning would prove interesting.

Sherlock abandoned his solo wank and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. Christ why couldn’t he just go to sleep. He craned his neck to see the clock above the dresser. It was three in the morning. Sherlock groaned. It was his fault, Greg fucking Lestrade. Turning those dark chocolate eyes on him that very first night when he’d led Greg around the dancefloor on his roller-skates while Sherlock had been picturing him in his wet, white shorts cotton clinging to the contours of his glorious cock. The real thing was even better than the fantasy, now he had had it, hard and pushed up inside his body, stretching him wide and filling him so completely. And now he was desperate for more.

Damn it.

Sherlock threw back the covers in frustration, he had to see Greg again, right now. He slipped out of bed and padded across the room to the dresser, pulling out a pair of baggy joggers and an old grey hoodie, not bothering with underwear, he felt oddly exposed, almost like being naked, the fleecy lining rubbing deliciously against his skin.

Wary of noise, Sherlock opened the window, climbed up onto the narrow sill and ducked down below the wooden frame. Rubber soles hit the wooden deck with barely a sound as he crouched cat-like, straining to hear if his escape had gone unnoticed.

Nothing, just the silence.

Sherlock sighed in relief and set off at a jog down the bank towards the centre of the camp. Twigs snapped under his feet and stray branches brushed at his arms, some caught, bringing him to a halt as he plucked the material free. An owl hooted in the tree beside him and the undergrowth rustled, some nameless small forest creature brushing over the toe of his shoe to escape from the keen sighted predator. Sherlock breathed in the smell of musty soil and rotting vegetation and found it oddly comforting, there was nothing here to harm him here, feed him drugs, warp his perception and no-one to ask endless questions, when every answer he gave was wrong.

A few lights were still on along the row of staff cabins, but Greg’s window was in darkness, the window ajar. How convenient Sherlock thought, almost as if Greg had planned or at least suspected that Sherlock would find his way down. He hesitated, one foot on the narrow sill. Sherlock had never ever wanted to be close to someone like this before. But he pushed his own doubts aside and climbed inside, standing, picked out in shadow as his eyes adjusted to the grey light.

Greg was asleep on his back, head turned to the side. The sheets were pushed down around his waist, chest bare, the jut of his hip bone exposed. The clothes he had worn that night sat in a crumpled heap on the floor by the bed. Sherlock’s breath caught at the sight of him lying there, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, face soft and relaxed in sleep.

God he was gorgeous.

Slowly Sherlock drew down the zip on his hoodie and shucked it down his arms, it dropped to the floor and he pushed it aside when he toed off his shoes, pulled at the drawstring on his jogging pants and let them slide down his thighs to pool at his ankles. Naked, he stepped towards the bed and tugged at the edge of the covers nervously.

Greg slept at the right side of the bed and so Sherlock slipped in at the left side, climbing on the bed beside him and settling himself with his back to Greg’s side. He huddled down and pulled the cool sheets around his shoulders. Greg stirred behind him, a groan and a soft huff of breath as he exhaled. The mattress dipped as he rolled in the bed towards him, he shuffled onto his side and draped an arm around Sherlock’s waist. A firm thigh, prickling with dark fuzzy hair wound its way between Sherlock’s legs, and Greg hitched closer, pulling Sherlock back against his chest to bring them closer.

He nuzzled his face into the back of Sherlock’s head and gently kissed the back of his neck.

“Mmm Sh’lock”, he said sleepily, ”What the fuck you doin here?”

“Do you want me to go”, said Sherlock tense and guilty.

“No stay, s’nice”, Greg answered stroking along the curve of his arse beneath the sheets.

He drifted into sleep again, arms going slack around Sherlock’s body and he lay for a while, feeling the rise and fall of Greg’s chest at his back and the slow steady beat of his heart.

Slowly his lids grew heavy too, and he let himself fall with a sigh.

This was how it was supposed to be.

Consequences could wait until morning.


	8. Teenage Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before, and Greg finds out more about the Holmes brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I know! But I assure you from the bottom of my heart, I will never abandon any of my fics! Thanks to everyone who has read or continues to read them, you are all amazing!!

 

Greg jerked awake, a sudden move from sleep to consciousness and squinted against the bright rays of sunlight shining on his face through the open bedroom window.

Open.

Wide open, the curtains fluttering gently in the early morning breeze.

At first he couldn’t place what was amiss or why he had woken so abruptly, until the memory of a warm pliant body, long limbs tacky with salt water and sweat skated across his mind. Greg pressed a palm to the crumpled sheets beside him.

It was still warm, but barely.

He scrubbed his hands across his face and thumbed out the crusts from the corners of his eyes, remembering.

Christ, yeah, last night.

The things they had done, at the beach and after that too in the car. And Sherlock had been here too, crept in his room sometime after Greg had dropped him off at his family’s cabin, coming back sometime in the early hours of the morning to slip into bed beside him, naked. But just like the last time he’d been in this room, he’d bolted what could only have been a few minutes ago by the warmth still present and the indentation in the pillow, a stray dark hair curling against cool white cotton.

How had he missed it?

Sweet, shy kisses with morning breath unsure if this was even allowed or wanted, unguarded moments of affectionate attention, running fingers through mussed and sleep-flattened hair.

He sat up with a groan, suddenly aware of every pull and ache in his muscles, and decided then and there he would never have sex in that bloody stupid car again.

Shit, who was he kidding. If it was Sherlock spread out naked on the back seat he would do it in a heartbeat.

“You were out of milk, I hope you like it black”.

Jesus Christ and all that is holy, Greg jolted at the rich vibrating tones, derailed from the filthy teenage fantasy and rubbed his eyes again just to make sure this wasn’t some crazy illusion sent to tease him.

Sherlock nudged the door open with his foot and wandered back into the bedroom unconcerned, a mug in each hand and as gorgeous and sleep ruffled as Greg had imagined, dressed only in one of Greg’s sloppy rugby shirts and absolutely nothing else. Pale endless legs peeked out at the bottom, skirting over the swell of his arse and falling down to mid-thigh. It was old, covered in grass stains that wouldn’t wash out no matter how much detergent he employed, with a deep V at the front, and on someone as broad shouldered and stocky as Greg it was fine, but on Sherlock the wide neck had slipped to the side and was hanging provocatively off one shoulder.

He was a hot, filthy mess.

Bruises and faint teeth marks peppered his neck and chest, and Greg felt a momentary pang of guilt. The kid could get in trouble with his parents for the state he was in as it couldn’t be more obvious what he’d been up to, what they’d both been up to last night. But Sherlock apparently, had no intention of fleeing the scene of the crime this morning, climbing gingerly onto the bed and shuffling back into the middle again.

Greg smiled with satisfaction, sitting up fully and stretching out his arms above his head to shake the last fugue of sleep from his limbs.

Sherlock’s eyes traced over the lines of Greg’s bare torso as he sat cross-legged on the pillow and handed over the second steaming mug of coffee, settled his back against the headboard and took a first careful sip of his own.

“I thought for a minute you’d done a runner out the window again,” Greg laughed and took a mouthful of his own. It was surprisingly good, strong and very, very sweet and the caffeine hit cleared the last of the fog from his brain.

“I thought about it,” Sherlock said carefully, a flash of guilt apparent in his expression. “But I also thought you might imagine you’d hallucinated my sleeping here, and so to save your sanity I decided to stay.”

“About that,” said Greg, sitting up fully and placing the mug down on the bedside table, “Why didn’t you say you wanted to spend the night here, you didn’t have to sneak back in you know, did you think I would’ve said no, cause believe me, that would never have happened.”

“Oh really, and why is that I wonder?” Sherlock asked, amused, feigning wide-eyed innocence to perfection.

“Hmm,” Greg said, “As if you didn’t bloody know clever shite, and put that down for god’s sake before you burn yourself.”

Not bothering to wait for Sherlock to respond, he plucked the half-full mug from his unresisting grasp and set it down by his own, ceramic clinking together.

“Come here you.” He curled one hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pulled his head down for a kiss, lips drifting a whisper apart. “So…. about last night”.

Sherlock pulled back, neck tensed against the press of Greg’s palm, far enough that he could look him in the eye. A double image of the narrowed blue gaze shimmered across Greg’s vision and he squinted to bring him back into focus. “What about it…and which part?”

“Everything…all of it…is this okay?” He coaxed, running a thumb along the back of Sherlock’s neck, up and down, tracing the fine hairs at the nape. He could feel the point at which Sherlock visibly relaxed as he gave a little shiver, muscles going slack against the heat of his palm.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, finally dipping down the rest of the way and humming his response.

The gentle almost chaste connection of warm dry mouths soon changed to a languorous slide of lips and tongue. Sherlock really was incredibly good at this, shifting in Greg’s arms and moving his body even closer toward him. He pressed a hand to Greg’s bare chest and swung a long leg over to sit firmly in his lap. They were face to face now. Sherlock a little higher, leaning down to capture Greg’s mouth again. The rugby shirt had rucked up around Sherlock’s slender waist, the warm, heavy weight of him a timely reminder he was stark bollock naked underneath.

Which reminded him.

Greg ran both his hands down Sherlock’s sides grasped him firmly and lifted him enough to get his own knees under him. Sherlock continued to cling around his neck and showed little in the way of objection as Greg eased him back down onto the mattress. Now Sherlock lay pliant and Greg hovered over him.

“Turn over,” he said, pushing gently at his hip and Sherlock looked up warily.

“I don’t know if I….I’m a bit,” Sherlock answered hesitantly.

“Oh Shit no, I didn’t mean,” Greg could’ve kicked himself right then for being so stupid. Sherlock had never done this before, never spent the night in bed with anyone other than Greg, so what else was the kid supposed to think – he’d drawn the obvious conclusion that Greg was asking him for sex. Again. “I just wanted to see…something I’ve been thinking about since I saw you at the swimming pool yesterday, I never thought about it last night, it was dark, you know, and I was kind of distracted by other things,” Greg rubbed softly at the base of Sherlock’s spine, “But it’s daylight now, so I hoped you might show me?”

“Oh, that, I thought you meant….why didn’t you just say in the first place?” Sherlock shook his head as if Greg was an idiot (which he blatantly was for making him in the least bit uncomfortable) wriggled out of his grasp and flipped over onto his stomach. The shirt still sat low, just barely covering his gorgeous arse until Sherlock reached down and grabbed it at the hem and unashamedly whipped it off over his head. It landed on the floor in a dusty corner somewhere that Greg absolutely did not give a single fuck about. How could he when there was a very naked Sherlock on his bed again.

The mark in question was intricate and beautiful and what had appeared at first sight to be a butterfly was a perfectly realized hummingbird. The delicate wings suggested speed and movement, beating against nothing as it hovered at the base of Sherlock’s spine.

“It’s very good, surprisingly, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s muffled voice spoke from the depths of a pillow, “We were messing around online and ordered this whole heap of stuff on Seb’s mum’s credit card one night, I think we were high at the time, must’ve been, you should have seen some of the useless shit we bought. She was having an affair you see, and Seb in his wisdom thought it an appropriate method of revenge, sex toys and bondage gear, nothing too kinky just dildo’s and crotchless knickers and things, and somehow we ended up with a professional tattoo kit that neither of us can remember ordering.”

“And so you did what?.....Just tried it out on each other’s arses for a laugh?”

“Pretty much,” Sherlock shrugged, “And it’s lower back, not arse, “ he added with a huff.

“I can see that thanks.”

“You don’t approve,” Sherlock lifted himself up, propped up on his elbows and side-eyed Greg’s frown with a glance over his shoulder.

“Yeah well, it was pretty stupid, but what I really don’t approve of is you undressing in front of that wanker and letting him permanently ink up your body. He could’ve ballsed it up completely and put anything there, a giant cock or Sherlock is a twat or….I don’t know.”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

“Er no, definitely not.” Greg had to admit he was mildly impressed. He’d seen much, much worse come out of supposedly professional parlours, and besides, he wanted to be a policeman, and .although tattoos weren’t banned he thought it better to keep a clean slate and not have any at all.

“Sebastian may be terrible at many things,” Sherlock went on, “Most things if I’m honest, but art is not one of them and an artist would never intentionally ruin such a pristine white canvas, not if he was planning on persuading said canvas to blow him at some point. It wouldn’t have gone down well.”

“Or you wouldn’t have gone down at all more like.” Greg shot back, failing to keep the stab of jealousy from his voice. It made him feel sick that Sherlock had let Seb anywhere near him, no matter what the reason. But things hadn’t always been bad between the two of them and he’d done his fair share of crazy stuff while under the influence of drink, not drugs.

“Quite,” Sherlock sighed, either letting it pass or ignoring the comment completely as he snuffled back down into the mattress again, content to let Greg stare all he wanted and trace the design on his back with a fingertip, his arms crossed underneath him and his head resting lightly on the pillow.

His skin felt like silk and although it must have tickled he lay still and content, his back rose and felt with deep even breaths and Greg thought he might have actually dozed off again, until…

“Are you actually going to do anything other than stare?”

Sherlock wriggled against the covers impatiently which made the cheeks of his arse jiggle slightly, which made Greg just have to bend down and shut him up a bit. He took a plush handful and squeezed. Sherlock jerked in surprise. Greg straddled him again, staying low over the tops of his thighs and not sitting down, just hovering above him. He bent over the length of Sherlock’s back and placed a hand either side of him at shoulder- height and traced a line down his spine with the tip of his tongue. The delicious little shiver was worth it as was the way Sherlock sighed and arched his back like a lazy contented cat. But cats didn’t sweat when they were feeling turned- on, well at least Greg didn’t think so and he didn’t care either way, he just repeated the motion chasing the tiny beads that had formed between his shoulder-blades, the salt and musk of unwashed night after sex skin while Sherlock’s breaths grew increasingly rapid and his hips began to cant into the mattress, an unconscious reaction to his growing arousal. Greg started from the top again, a slow tease working down, planting deep, wet kisses along each bony prominence, sucking deep pink marks into the skin as he went, a trail of hot filthy kisses, each one leaving their mark. Sherlock groaned in appreciation and arched up to further encourage him.

Greg rarely took the such time with a lover like this, but Sherlock was so much more than a one-time thing and so damn responsive to everything Greg tried with him. It was addictive in the best way. The soft shivers that made his skinny body tremble so beautifully, little gasps and moans that the pillow failed to muffle and which Greg was sure Sherlock wasn’t even attempting to conceal. He wanted to hear him, every noise that he could pull from him, and so he whispered in Sherlock’s ear and tugged gently at the pillow.

“Don’t hide your face, I want to hear you.”

“Why? It’s embarrassing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? It’s the single hottest sound I’ve ever heard, you know , other than all the sounds you made last time…just don’t try and stop yourself, it’s gorgeous and I like it. More than a lot actually.” And before Sherlock could reply he dove back down and lapped over the mark, partly because he just had to and partly to hide his own flaming face from Sherlock’s penetrating gaze.

Christ, when had he become so sentimental and awkward?

Right when he realised he’d fallen and fallen hard.

That’s when.

Like he had now.

Damn.

So that’s why it felt like his skin was on fire, why his arms shook as he held himself upright, why his breath came out in shaky gasps as he pressed a kiss to the base of Sherlock’s spine and then pushed himself up and sat back on his heels, just to breath, he told himself as his head began to spin.

“If you’ve finished having your existential crisis, I’d quite like to have your tongue back on me now.”

And that ladies and gentleman, was the object of his lust and affection.

And if he was still able to form a coherent sentence then Greg obviously hadn’t done his job right.

“Where were we?” he said with a grin, recovered from his earlier post first- night wobble, “Oh right, I remember, I was just about to….mmm”.

Well, it was rather hard to form words with his tongue shoved firmly in Sherlock’s crack.

“Ah…Ah…G…Greg” Sherlock stuttered in shocked surprise, while Greg let out a hot puff of breath against his skin parting Sherlock’s arse for better access and lapping gently over his hole again. He sensed Sherlock tense a little, sucking in a breath to speak and so he stopped and pressed a soft kiss to the small of his back instead.

“I don’t think I can,” Sherlock started, almost shyly, “I mean, I want to it’s just a bit….”

“Hey, no need, of course not, I know. We can fool around a bit and not have sex…you’re just….you have absolutely no idea, do you?”

Sherlock visibly sagged with relief beneath him, and Greg crawled back up the bed Sherlock’s head beneath his chin.

“Sorry, I’m an idiot, I should’ve said I wasn’t actually trying to jump you again, just this is nice anyway,” he smoothed his palms along the length of Sherlock’s back, “I guess this is a first for me too.”

Sherlock looked up at this. “Really?”

“Yeah actually, girls seem to like the sleepover treatment, but the blokes I’ve been with, not so much. I prefer to go to their places and head home straight after.”

“So it’s you then?” Sherlock said, “You’re the one who hates sleepovers, you implied that your partners objected somehow, but you’re the one who chooses to leave.”

“Ah, right, when you put it like that, busted then, yeah. Not really a cuddler, waking up to some bloke’s hairy arse and second-day stubble never really appealed somehow.”

“And I’m….what, exactly…what makes me so different?”

It wasn’t accusatory or judgemental, just genuine interest, and so Greg thought hard before he answered. Still, he knew it wouldn’t be enough, because he barely understood this himself. Perhaps the best thing would be to just come clean.

“Honestly Sherlock? I really don’t know,” he sighed. “You just are…you’re just you. Plus,” he added with a smirk, “You have a gorgeous hair-free arse and barely any peach-fuzz…so bonus.” He tickled Sherlock’s chin with his thumb, laughing as the boy pouted in offence. “What? You would rather I lied and said your face felt like a Brillo pad?”

“Obviously not”. Sherlock just snuffled back down into the crook of his neck playing idly with small patch of dark hair on Greg’s chest. “So,” he said finally, innocence masking his intent. “This fooling around that you mentioned before….does it mean I’m allowed to do this?”

Greg hadn’t kept track of Sherlock’s other hand, which had been a big mistake or a glorious surprise, depending upon your outlook. Greg decided to go with the glorious as a warm, wide palm wrapped firmly around his cock, which immediately sprang to attention, turning a semi to a blood hot rod of iron. Well, not exactly, but that’s what it felt like, Sherlock’s talented fingers worked him over with just the right speed and grip, tight and fast with a twist at the head that sparked white hot along his veins.

And then they both jumped a mile as the alarm clock on the bedside table burst suddenly, and loudly into life.

It was tempting to ignore it, let Sherlock find his rhythm again but the piercing digital beep had been perfectly designed to grate on the hearer’s last nerve. Greg reached out blindly behind him and it crashed to the floor instead, the noise continued unabated.

“Shit, Christ almighty,” he huffed when unable to see any other solution he reluctantly sat up. He plucked it from the floor and stabbed the off-button in anger, and just for good measure, he popped the panel on the back, unclipped the batteries and threw them across the room.

That’s what you got for ruining an amazing hand-job. He’d been just a few tugs away, and now all he felt was sweaty and frustrated, and if he didn’t get out of bed now, he’d be late for work again, for the second time in as many days.

Sherlock peered up at him sheepishly from the warm cocoon of the duvet. He’d wriggled underneath it again.

“Sorry gorgeous,” Greg scrubbed his hands down over his face, “Duty calls. I would rather stay here…you know that, don’t you?”

“To be continued?” Sherlock asked, staring pointedly at his half-hard groin.

“Hell yes, you try and stop me,” said Greg with a grin, smacking Sherlock’s arse as he climbed out of bed.

The coffee was still lukewarm, so they drank it down hurriedly and Greg grabbed a pack of choc-chip muffins from the cupboard in the kitchen. He brought them back into the bedroom and Sherlock eyed them with suspicion, shaking his head when Greg offered one.

“That’s not breakfast, it’s cake,” he said, arching an eyebrow. Greg took a hearty bite spilling crumbs all over the bed.

“And? It’s better than what you’re having, which is….oh yeah….a big fat plate full of nothing.”

Sherlock stuck out his tongue while rooting on the floor for last nights discarded clothes. He found his boxers and pulled them on without checking if they were clean or not. He was bent, intent over the side of the bed, spine and ribs clearly visible through translucent white skin.

He really should eat more. Greg made a mental note to find out what he did like for breakfast and make sure he had plenty for the next time Sherlock stayed over to feed him up a bit, he was probably having a growth spurt and had yet to catch up with his body.

The hoodie and track pants had drifted under the bed and were currently adorned with a season’s worth of dust bunnies. Sherlock coughed dramatically and flapped them in front of Greg’s face.

“Do you have to?” he choked, swatting them away .

“You are messier than I am, and I grow mould cultures in my bedroom.”

“Remind me to never, ever, sleep there.”

“That’s okay, Seb’s hardly ever there, we’d just use his bed and forget to change the sheets.”

“Nice. You’ve thought about this then?”

“Of course I have, why wouldn’t I?”

Greg smiled fondly, and continued dressing, drifting from the bedroom to the bathroom to splash water on his face and under his arms, it was all he had time for so would have to do for now. He was on pool duty later and could shower in the locker room then.

He should let Sherlock know. Maybe he would turn up in those skimpy little booty shorts again.

“Er, bye then.” Sherlock popped his head inside the bathroom door, interrupting him mid piss.

“Where are you going?”

“Home, the cabin, you’ve got work and I’m dressed now, I’ll shower at home, or just go back to bed.” He punctuated the sentence with an ear-splitting yawn.

“Don’t be an idiot, I’ll walk you back, I have an inventory to do, it’s the cabin next to your one actually, someone left a message last night, it’s been rented out for the rest of the season.”

Sherlock looked less than pleased at the news, Greg knew by now he valued the solitude of the secluded location in the woods. Still, if it was someone his age, they might be able to hang out when Greg was tied up with work during the day. He had just decided to say as much but Sherlock spoke first.

“Please find something wrong so they have to stay somewhere else.”

“Come on, give them a chance. I’m sure your mum and dad won’t mind, the boss says they’re regulars so you probably already know them.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “Tell me to ‘make some new friends’ and I’ll never suck you off again.”

Greg pretended to consider it while Sherlock stood and scowled at him.

“That’s okay,” he said finally, I’ll just do you instead, now come on or I’m going to be late.”

For the unpredictable British summer, it had the makings of a beautiful day. The sky was almost cloudless, just a few bare wisps of white drifted high and the gentlest of breezes ruffled their hair as they walked. It was just past seven and most of the camp were still comatose in bed so they didn’t have to suffer too many curious stares, a staff member and a guest who may or may not be doing the walk of shame. Thank god Sherlock’s clothes were suitably casual, he could have been for a walk or an early morning run, rather than where he had been, in Greg’s cabin all night. The only ones who would guess the truth wouldn’t care, and even if they did care he was sure they’d keep it to themselves, as he would do for them.

Despite the dry weather the track to Sherlock’s cabin was still damp underfoot, shaded by the thick glade of trees. Greg remembered the last time he’s been here, him turning Sherlock down in a way he thought was kind and Sherlock storming off feeling humiliated.

Still, he’d done the right thing.

They wouldn’t have what they had now if he’d taken advantage that first time.

Smiling to himself, hardly daring to believe how lucky he was, how close he’d come to fucking this up completely before it began, he reached out and took one of Sherlock’s hands in his, linking their fingers tightly. Sherlock glanced down curiously, but didn’t pull away, not even when voices could be heard clearly up ahead on the track. It took a moment to identify them as Sherlock’s mum and dad, and Greg was undecided whether to let go now or let Sherlock decide how this would go. He went for the second option and prepared for the worst.

“Hello boys,” Mrs Holmes said cheerfully, looking up from her task as she watched them approach. She was watering the window boxes dressed in beige cotton slacks and a soft blue shirt and apart from the abundance of grey in her upswept hair, it was easy to see the resemblance to her youngest son. The plants in some of the shallow troughs looked a little the worse for wear, which was hardly a surprise given Sherlock’s habit of using them as a foothold for climbing on the roof.

“And where have you been to so early young man, or should I say where are you just returning from, Hmm?”

Sherlock blushed and she chuckled darkly, standing up and coming down the cabin steps to meet them.

“I’m only teasing Gregory dear, I know my son better than he thinks, I’m surprised he waited a full hour before he snuck out again. Though it’s not hard to see why he did.” She added with a wink as she gave the flowers a final cursory sprinkle, and Greg thought Sherlock might very well combust from the heat of pure embarrassment radiating from every inch of him, poor kid.

Greg thought it was hilarious, Mrs Holmes was a gem. Christ, if he told Sherlock about all the shit he’d had to put up with as a teenager just for coming in a few minutes after his curfew. And if he’d dared to walk in with a boy and a line of purple love-bites on his neck his dad would’ve kicked his arse or more likely knocked him out cold. Thank God he didn’t live there anymore.

Sherlock was lucky to have such great parents, much more than he would care to admit.

“Er thanks….I think,” he said.

Sherlock had yet to let go of his hand, Greg noticed. “Hey,” he said, tugging said hand to get his attention, “I really do have to get to work now, but maybe you can call to the pool later, or you know, I could let you know when I’m done here and we can walk down together or something?”

Sherlock shot a glare at his mother, still hovering by the steps and she smiled conspiratorially at Greg before she turned her back pointedly and made her way back into the cabin. Sherlock waited until the door had closed, the audible click his signal to turn toward him and slide his arms around Greg’s waist.

“Oh god, that was awful,” he groaned.

“Ah, leave her be, she thinks I’m adorable, I can tell.”

“But she’s not supposed to, that’s my exclusive job. Mother’s should mind their own business, not know about their sons sneaking out at night for sex then winking at their boyfriends the next morning as if they know things, it’s humiliating.”

“That she knows, or that she doesn’t mind? Or god forbid, the fact that she might even approve.”

“She didn’t act like this when she found out about Seb. Dad wanted to call the school and have me transferred to a single room, as if that makes a difference when the bed is exactly the same.”

“Even better,” Greg said, “It’s not a boy thing then, it’s just a dickhead thing, and seeing as I passed the parent test, try and relax and give her a break, she’s great.”

“You think so?” Sherlock beamed.

“Yeah,” Greg whispered, pulling him closer. “Do you think she’d mind if I kissed you, right here?”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

No one minded apparently, although his boss may have done, given it was another ten minutes before he finally left Sherlock, lips swollen and eyes glassy on the steps of his cabin.

The job shouldn’t take long, an hour at most, the cleaning was done, there were just the linen’s to sort, the boiler to check the hot water was flowing, log’s to set out for the wood-burner, and that all the electrical appliances were working. And if he skipped a few things he told himself, seeing Sherlock in his swim shorts at the pool as soon as humanly possible was not the motivating factor.

He’d just boiled the kettle for the second time, when a large vehicle drove up the track and crunched across the gravel out front. They were early, whoever they were, changeover was always at noon, or later. But that was more for previous guests than the staff and the cabin had been empty since the start of the season. Sherlock would have new neighbours much sooner than he’d anticipated. He made a final sweep of the cabin and grabbed the door keys from where he’d left them, resting on the arm of the sofa. With any luck he could slip out before the new guests even noticed he was here, and return the staff keys to the maintenance office. Unsurprisingly, guests got a little bit funny about staff in their cabin when they’d already checked in.

The window was open, and he heard a car door slam outside.

Too late.

He slipped out of the door as discreetly as he could.

Not discreetly enough as it happened.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Sherlock’s faithful new guard- dog, what a surprise to see you here.”

Sebastian Wilkes pushed off from where he’d been lounging against the side of the car, a large silver Lexus with tinted windows and private plates. He sauntered over slowly, hands in shoved down into the pockets of his light grey chinos, aviator shades clipped to the front of a plain white tee. It all screamed money, but Greg knew that didn’t equate to class and he noted with satisfaction the green and yellow tinge of a bruise that he’d obviously tried to disguise with make-up.

“What the hell are you doing here Seb.”

“That’s hardly the way to address a guest now is it? Eyes and ears Greg, you need to be more careful.”

“Guest? Bit of a coincidence you get the cabin next to the Holmes’ isn’t it?”

“Our parents are old friends as it happens, it’s close to school and not too far from London, not that that’s any of your damn business.”

This was a bad idea. But something about this bloke just made Greg’s teeth itch; The way he held himself, the air of entitlement, that he clearly thought Greg lesser than him somehow, and the fact that he’d had his hands on Sherlock with a considerable question mark over the issue of consent.

And the drugs, don’t forget the drugs.

Yes, he realized that if Sherlock wanted them so badly, he would find a way to get them, but to have some idiot, sharing the same room and putting him in temptations way on a daily basis, it was small wonder that Sherlock had found himself unable to resist.

A lonely messed-up kid just trying to fit in, something Sherlock would deny vehemently and this sick bastard had completely taken advantage of his lack of emotional intelligence. Sherlock was brilliant but he still had so much to learn about relationships, one area where Greg had more experience. Experience which told him to drop it, be politely dismissive and get the hell out of there before his tongue had other ideas.

Unfortunately, Sherlock chose that moment to emerge from the cabin, long board shorts hanging off his hips, chest bare and a blue towel draped around his neck. It hid most, but not all of the marks, not that he tried to in particular, even for decencies sake, he simply didn’t care what anyone else thought, and Greg just loved that about him, it was a demand, a call to take me as I am, and if you don’t like what you see then fuck off, I don’t care.

Seb raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Oh my God…You and him, you actually did it, this is priceless.”

“Ignore him,” Sherlock drawled, “He’s only jealous I would never let him near me like that….what exactly are you doing here Seb, and not the made-up rubbish you’ve just spouted, the truth please.”

Sebastian looked between them darkly, his expression moving from angry to uncertain. Sherlock moved close to Greg’s side, the back of his arm brushing against Greg’s side. His fingers twitched with the urge to take hold of his hand. He gave in, slipping a warm palm around Sherlock’s icy skin.

“How would your boss feel about you shagging a male teenage guest,” he said sarcastically.

“Not as bad as your parents would feel about you passing drugs to my boyfriend in exchange for sex acts.” Greg spat back.

“I only ever got what he was willing to give, and he was Greg, I know you don’t want to believe it, how very willing he was. Only too happy to get down on your knees, weren’t you Sherlock dear?”

Sherlock shot Greg a worried look and he squeezed his hand in support. It didn’t matter what came out of that idiots mouth, they’d already been over this, what had happened in the past didn’t matter, it was done and he’d do everything in his power to make sure Sherlock felt safe now, that he didn’t have to risk his health and life, and that there were other, more pleasant ways to calm his turbulent mind.

“Is everything aright out here boys?” Mrs Holmes bustled out of the cabin.

“Yes Mrs Holmes, Sherlock was just introducing me to Sebastian.”

“Hmm,” she said, eyeing them all thoughtfully, giving every indication of a woman far from convinced. Like mother, like son. “Well, if you’re quite done with the pleasantries, father has a batch of pancakes on the go, if it wouldn’t take you out of your way Greg dear, you’re more than welcome to join us.”

Sherlock looked like the very last thing he wanted was to be forced to eat delicious food in the company of his mum and dad, but he had skipped breakfast, and it would get them away from Seb before this could escalate any further.

“Sounds good thanks,” he said, and Sherlock sighed beside him. Still, he didn’t object as Greg tugged him up the cabin steps drawn in by the fragrant smell of fresh coffee and pancakes.

Mrs Holmes hesitated on the threshold. “Aren’t your parents here Sebastian?”

“They’re coming up later in the week, Mrs H.” he said, as her natural hospitality fought with her obvious dislike of the boy. Breakfast wouldn’t be quite so appealing with an extra, unwanted guest.

They were saved however, by the approach of another large car, the same white Toyota from the night of the roller disco. A bloke in his twenties was at the wheel, tall, dark and thick set like Sebastian, the family resemblance was unmistakeable.

Mrs Holmes frowned and Sherlock whispered close in Greg’s ear.

“Christopher Wilkes, Seb’s older brother and Mycroft’s ex- boyfriend from Cambridge. They dated for almost three years until Mycroft got bored of the ways of the flesh, or so he says.”

“How can you possibly get bored of sex?”

“Easily, if you’re Mycroft Holmes I suppose, sentiment as he calls it is an irritating distraction, he likes to be in control and he and Christopher were, how shall I put it? Rather a volatile couple at the best of times, and if you know my brother you’ll understand how very out of character that is. No one pushed Myc’s buttons quite like Chris. But passion burns out in the end.”

“It didn’t end well I take it?”

“Hardly, everyone expected them to marry after Cambridge, they already lived together, they’d even bought a dog for God’s sake, but Mycroft got cold feet when Chris suggested a surrogate. My god, can you imagine, Mycroft with a baby?”

No, Greg couldn’t imagine. What little he’d seen of the elder Holmes in previous years painted a picture of a focused, career driven young man permanently who never paid more than a fleeting visit to the cabin; That he’d been on the brink of marriage seemed almost improbable.

“Well, that was the end of that,” Sherlock said, “They broke up three months later when Mycroft started working for the government, he bought a flat in London and they haven’t spoken since. That was a year ago now.”

“Christ, that’s….yeah….how old is your brother again?”

“Twenty-four at the end of this month. He was going to come up, celebrate it here, but I doubt that’ll happen now.”

“Oh come on, surely they can be civil, it’s not as if he has to invite the guy over for a drink.”

Sherlock frowned. “No, that’s exactly what he _would_ have to do, at least that’s the way Mycroft would see it. Snubbing the Wilkes family when he knows fine well that they’re here would be unthinkably rude to him. God what a mess.”

“Hey, you don’t think that’s why he came, cause he knows you’re here every year and it’s nearly Mycroft’s birthday?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock mused, “Chris took it pretty badly at the time, or perhaps it’s purely coincidence.”

“You don’t really think that though?”

“No, I don’t believe in it, Christopher is here for a reason.”

Mrs Holmes closed the door with a click, blocking the newcomer from view. “Go and eat boys, while it’s still hot, I just need to make a quick phone call.”

Sherlock shot Greg a significant look.

So both brothers had been entangled with the Wilkes’. Greg needed some time to process this news, especially the part where Sherlock mentioned passion, how Mycroft and Chris had been in love but it wasn’t enough and the flame burnt out.

Just how alike were Sherlock and his brother?

Is that how Sherlock saw them, as something that would succumb to the inevitable and end in a mess like Mycroft and Christopher?

Greg felt almost sick at the thought as the realization struck that he couldn’t bear to imagine an end to all this. Sherlock was in his head, in his very bones now, everywhere, but it was coming, summer would end, Sherlock would go back to school and he would join the Met training programme. What then? Sherlock would head to University as he should, and he’d be a copper on the beat, they’d spend years apart living separate lives, moving in different circles – how could that possibly work long-term?

It scared him that he was already thinking in terms of something permanent. Sherlock was only sixteen and they barely even knew each other.

“Don’t,” Sherlock whispered, as they shuffled into seats at the small kitchen table, knowing what was going through his mind. “That won’t happen to us, I won’t let it, I’m not an idiot like my brother, we’ll be different, you and I, I promise you, I’ll do whatever it takes, but I Will. Not. Leave You.”

Greg smiled warmly in return. It didn’t matter that they’d only had one night, naïve as it seemed. There was a truth to Sherlock, a solid unshakeable core of loyalty that when he had given his heart, it was yours to keep forever.

He would never take it back himself.

A promise.

And in that moment Greg believed him, believed _in_ him.

Today, Greg would let that be enough. For now, there were pancakes to enjoy, and later some secret snogging by the pool with the most gorgeous boy he had ever laid eyes on, after that, who knew?

More of this he hoped.

He devoured his second and much tastier breakfast of the day, and even got Sherlock to eat more than a few paltry bites. Really, it wasn’t hard, Sherlock’s father was a stunning cook and by the time they left the cabin half an hour later he was pleased to be on pool duty where he got sit back in a chair for an hour until the tight, full feeling in his stomach subsided.

“That’s how Mycroft started,” Sherlock smirked. “A pancake here a scone there, cake on a Sunday tea-time, leftovers in a Tupperware hidden under his pillow. It’s a slippery slope to elasticated waistbands from there so be careful.”

“We can’t all have the build of Thoroughbred racehorse,” Greg said, pushing out his belly and smacking it lightly. “Come on then if you’re done, before I really get the sack. You can teach me to skate after work.”

“Oh, a challenge, I like that,” said Sherlock with a grin as they made their way down the rough track to the swimming area, the Wilkes brothers a distant concern, pushed to the background again.

He looked so young and hopeful skin slightly pink in the heat of the summer sun, an adorable patch of barely-there freckles spattered across the bridge of his nose.

So beautiful it hurt, and Greg would do anything to keep this.

If these few weeks were all they might have, he didn’t want to waste another second.


End file.
